Holding the Light
by Lizardbeth J
Summary: Coulson recruits a new operative: John Reese. As John and Natasha fight against the shadows of their past, new bonds form and a new hero rises. Now complete!
1. Chapter 1

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: ** This is a crossover of the _Avengers_ and _Person of Interest_, but it's set in the MCU and is AU to the pilot of PoI. This story is basically JOHN REESE, AGENT OF SHIELD. It was written for the Avengers Crossover Big Bang challenge, and thus comes with lovely art by LJ: glasslogic.

The story's set before the movie and features John, Natasha, Clint, Coulson, and Steve Rogers especially, with a bit of Fury and Maria.

The story is complete and I'll be posting two chapters each week.

* * *

_**HOLDING THE LIGHT**  
_

* * *

_So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light_  
_Cause oh they gave me such a fright_  
_And I will hold on with all of my might_  
_Just promise me that we'll be alright…_  
- "Ghosts that we knew" by Mumford and Sons

.

Phil Coulson looked up at the plain façade of the Eighth Precinct station. "If he comes out, follow him," he ordered the two agents with him, who nodded sharply.

Then he mounted the steps and went into the station. A little muttering about 'his client' was all it took, and they were leading him back to the interview area. Coulson first saw four young guys cooling their heels in one of the holding cells. They looked a bit worse for wear, but none were his quarry. But when Coulson turned and looked through the window into the interrogation room, he was there, just as the facial-recognition alert had suggested.

The alert hadn't mentioned that he looked like a homeless guy, though, with layers of ratty, dirty clothes and an even rattier, dirty beard. His eyes were closed and he sat on the chair as if he might be dozing, but Coulson wasn't entirely fooled by that, not after seeing the file. But still, it was a little shocking to walk in expecting sleek lethality, and find someone in need of help.

"That's him."

The cop looked at him askance, but shrugged. "He's not charged, so feel free."

"Charged? He was the victim," Coulson pointed out.

"Victim? You should look at the video. He took all four of them out without a scratch, like some kind of ninja. But yeah, pretty clear self-defense against those punks. But tell him to take his meds, so he doesn't kill someone by accident next time he gets carried away."

Coulson thought, _I sincerely doubt he's ever killed anyone by accident, Sergeant_.

"Leave your card in case there's follow up."

"Sure." Coulson picked from the stack of business cards in his pocket and handed over the attorney card.

The sergeant opened the door and announced, "Okay, your lawyer's here. You're free to go."

Nothing in his posture changed, but John's eyes flickered with surprise and suspicion, as he frowned at Coulson. But he didn't object to having a mystery 'attorney' he didn't ask for, only got to his feet.

"Let's go," Coulson said. "Let's get you out of here."

John followed him out of the police station and down the steps. He saw the other two agents and hesitated, glancing at Coulson, and back to the station as if considering going back in there.

"You're not a lawyer," John said. His voice was low and flat, as if he didn't actually care that his supposed lawyer was not a lawyer at all.

"No. My boss wants to talk to you."

John's gaze flicked back to him. "Not interested. Thanks for springing me but I'm on my own."

He started to walk away and when the other agents started after him, Coulson raised a hand to stop them. He called after John, "I'm not them, but your former employers are going to know you're still alive now, John."

John stopped at the sound of his name, but didn't turn around.

"We can protect you."

"And if I don't want protection?" John responded.

"You should. You and I both know what they do with loose ends like you. Now that you're back on the radar, they'll start looking. I can offer something else. How about a job? Meaningful important work. Something a man with your skills-"

That got his attention and he turned. Between the beard and dirty hair, his eyes burned. "I've heard that before. And it turned into putting bullets into children."

Coulson couldn't actually refute that one, because he'd read the file. Shameful what some black ops missions became. "It's not like that. We're not like that. I'm not a front for mercenaries, and our mandate is protective. Please, just hear us out."

He wondered if this was going to work and worried it wouldn't. Recruitment had seemed a slam dunk, but he'd expected someone more put together than John's attempt to drink himself into an anonymous grave.

John thought about it. "Fine. Talk."

"Not here, talk to my boss. He's waiting." Coulson indicated the town car idling at the curb, and after another hesitation, John got in.

As they pulled into traffic, he saw a woman in business wear rush out of the station and look urgently up and down the street, holding a business card she had probably just discovered was fake. Maybe she'd also discovered that her crime victim's fingerprints led to a dead man. Coulson felt a little sorry for her, but John was no longer in her jurisdiction.

In the car, he tried not to wrinkle his nose at the odor. John had been on the streets for awhile.

John rested his head against the back of the seat and shut his eyes during the drive, as if he didn't care where they were going. And yet, he had gotten in the car. So maybe he was curious to see what this was about. Or, he was hungover and needed a ride.

They arrived at the park, and the car pulled onto the gravel and came to a stop.

"We're here," Coulson said and opened the door. "My boss is waiting for you."

The view of the bridge and the city beyond the water was quite remarkable, as Coulson got out and held the car door. John climbed out, and headed for Director Fury, who was waiting by the park bench alone.

Coulson started to follow, but held back at a hand gesture from Fury, who waited patiently for his recruit. John stopped a few meters back from Fury, as if he suspected there was a sniper protecting the director. Of course, John had once been one of those snipers protecting dignitaries, so he might think that about everyone.

Fury greeted him, "John. You've been using the last name Reese, I believe. I'm glad you agreed to meet with me."

"I wasn't aware I had a lot of choice in the matter," John returned dryly.

Fury almost smiled. "True. Do you know who I am?"

"No idea."

Fury snorted. "Oh, come now, Mister Reese, you've been off the grid for awhile, but not that long. You know who I am and what I represent."

John's bluff caught, he answered, "You're Nick Fury, Director of that UN project with the unfortunate name, which is supposedly a ten million a year division, but has black box funding of six billion dollars a year."

Coulson bit his lip on a smile at the 'unfortunate name' dig. John Reese had a bit of a sarcastic sense of humor, after all.

"More than that actually," Fury said, with a nod. "That's what we let our colleagues in the Agency know about. So you've heard of us. But do you know what we do?"

"No."

Coulson couldn't tell if that was another lie, or not, but this time Fury didn't call him on it, if it was.

"It's a changing world, John. Science is changing humanity, and sometimes not in a direction the rest may be comfortable with. For instance, Harlem. You heard of that, I assume, the fight between the creatures the press have dubbed the Hulk and the Abomination that destroyed four blocks of Harlem? SHIELD was there, to contain and move the Abomination to a secure facility. And while they're the largest of the threats, they're not the only one. SHIELD exists to stop these threats. To do that, I need skilled agents, who are good thinkers, and yet share our belief that our skills should only be used to protect those who can't protect themselves from these new threats."

John didn't reply immediately. "Which sounds like law enforcement, and yet you lead an organization so secret it makes the CIA look like the public library. So what are you: cops or spies?"

Fury frowned a little. "Spies," he answered, "for now. We do much of our work abroad unofficially. But eventually, yes, we'll take it into the light. We'll have to. But that question shows me I was right about you. Come work for SHIELD, John. We need your skills."

John hesitated and his eyes turned toward the city. "My skills are mostly killing people, and I don't want to do that anymore."

"And if I promised you wouldn't have to?"

"I'd call you a liar."

"You have other skills."

John shrugged beneath his heavy coat. "Same skills any other ordinary ex-soldier has. Find one of those. I'm not interested."

Fury chuckled. "Do you think I recruit the 'ordinary'? I don't. I have your full record, John. I know all of it, about the experiments."

Coulson glanced at Fury in surprise, having no idea what Fury was talking about. Something hadn't made it into John's file, after all.

But that was nothing compared to the reaction from John. He took a step back, shoulders flinching and his hands tightening into fists. "You know _nothing_," he snapped in deep anger and he turned to go, only to find Coulson and the other two blocking his path.

His pale eyes darted, trapped, and Coulson knew he was about to attack. But John held himself still, unwilling to make the first move even when he seemed to desperately want out of there. Coulson held his breath and kept his hand away from his gun, having been around enough people like this that any attempt to go for his weapon would provoke the exact reaction he was trying to prevent.

"I'm sorry," Fury said, sounding actually regretful. "I needed you to know that I know. You have gifts, John. But there are people who have similar and even more powerful gifts but they're not like you. They aren't troubled by conscience. SHIELD exists to stop them. And it takes the extraordinary to stop the extraordinary."

John's eyes shut for a moment, pained, and then he answered, "You got the wrong guy. Sorry. I can't help you."

Behind his back, Coulson's gaze met Fury's, and the director nodded. Aloud, the director said heavily, as if giving up, "All right. If that's what you want. Agent Coulson, take him back."

"Yes, sir."

In the car Coulson didn't ask what Fury had meant, and John kept quiet, staring out the window. He knew the city though, and asked, "Where are we going?"

"I want to show you something first, before I drop you off."

John didn't protest, but he must have figured it out as they made the turn toward Harlem. The streets were clear, but one building was a shattered ruin, and three others were also red-tagged for demolition, too damaged to fix. A few others were damaged but still habitable, and a group were scorched by the fire that had run through here after the gas main had broken and exploded.

"The Hulk," Coulson said softly. "And Abomination. They're not alien creatures, Mister Reese. The Hulk is a human, a scientist, most of the time, but sometimes, because of a laboratory accident, he becomes the Hulk when frightened or angry. The Hulk has no fear and is pure rage. As far as I know, he is unstoppable."

John was silent for a moment, face unreadable, as he looked out at the destruction. "So how'd you stop him?"

Coulson leaned forward to tap on the glass and have the car continue on. "We didn't. Hulk stopped Abomination and then left. He's… being monitored, but we leave him alone."

John only hummed a little in response, but Coulson thought he sensed some approval.

"As Director Fury said, the Hulk is the most dangerous, but he's not the only…" he hesitated, intending to say 'lab accident', but then recalling what Fury had said about John being subject to experiments, decided that was a word he should skip, "dangerously powerful individual out there. And not all of them have Hulk's innocence. SHIELD has the technology and the personnel to stop and contain these superhuman threats, whether they originate on Earth, or elsewhere. That's our mandate."

John glanced at him askance. "Aliens?"

"They're out there, Mister Reese."

John snorted skeptically, but fell silent. In lower Manhattan they pulled over and Coulson let him out. "I hope you change your mind. In the meantime, let me, um, compensate you for your time." Coulson pulled out all his cash and held it out. "I.. uh, here. You served our country with honor, and you deserve better than this. Get yourself cleaned up and into some help, John, at least."

John nodded once, and his gaze met Coulson's for a moment, the broken edges softening for just a moment at the appreciation and he took the money. "Thanks."

He walked away, visible for a while in the crowd because of his height. Coulson tapped his ear piece. "Begin surveillance. Don't lose him."

He worried that John would try to avoid the surveillance, but as the afternoon deepened it seemed he didn't notice he was being watched. He slipped them once, apparently by accident, but the team picked up the trail from the tracker Coulson had put on the back of his coat.

Coulson was pleased that the money was used for more than alcohol, though he bought that too. He got himself new clothes from a second hand shop, toiletry items and eventually a room at the LaGrange hotel.

As their subject seemed to settle for the night and two teams got into position to monitor him, Coulson returned to Ops, to find Fury waiting there.

"Are you sure about this, boss?" Coulson asked quietly, coming to stand next to the director. "He just wants to be left alone. Maybe we should let him be."

Fury shook his head once and tapped the console with a gloved fist. "We leave him alone, he dies. Whether he does it himself or some black ops clean up squad does it, doesn't matter."

"He's one person," Coulson objected. He didn't mean it entirely, but he was curious about what Fury would say. "Why the special interest in saving him?"

Fury glanced at him and then at the monitors. "I don't throw away resources, Coulson. Not if I can help it."

"Yes, boss." He touched his ear piece and activated the channel. "Okay, you have a go, Agent Romanoff."

Natasha's voice came back, professional and cool. "_On it_."

Coulson reported it and then asked Fury, "What was that about experiments? You didn't give that to me."

"No." Fury replied and at first Coulson thought that was all he was going to get, but the director went on. "In the seventies a geneticist, Doctor Nathaniel Essex, attempted to recreate the supersoldier serum on his own. No one knew about it until 1987, when several teenagers died of an unknown disease. CDC discovered they had all been at the doctor's reformatory school in New Mexico, where they had all been subject to injections, genetic manipulation, shock treatments and brutal training. Our friend out there is the only one known to survive to adulthood."

"That's awful. But it seems like John should've gotten more out of it," Coulson said, thinking of the rest of John's file which was full of marksmanship and combat awards, but nothing especially superhuman. "What happened to the scientist? In lockdown someplace?"

Fury shook his head. "Police found Essex's body. He'd been stabbed twelve times and his neck broken. Probably it happened when the kids escaped, but officially John denied knowing anything about it."

"Someone wanted to make sure the monster wasn't coming back," Coulson murmured, impressed by the overkill but not surprised, and shook his head. "Damn." He knew the rest of the story, more or less, including John's military and CIA background. "You really think we're gonna get him onboard, boss?"

"I know Agent Romanoff will do her best. And her best is very good, so yes."

* * *

John awoke slowly, head pounding from the fifth of cheap whiskey he'd had to drink.

Then he heard the screaming. There was a woman screaming in terror nearby.

He jerked to alertness, finding to his shock that he had one hand zip-tied to the headboard. No, it was worse than that: he was zip-tied to the headboard of a bed that was in a different room than the one he'd fallen asleep in.

But he shoved aside the why and how of his situation and looked around for a way to free himself. He yanked on the tie, wondering if he could break it or the wooden beam of the headboard, but both seemed strong. He needed a tool. Stretching his free hand he grabbed the lamp on the bedside table, ripped off the shade, and then smashed the bulb against the wall. Snatching the biggest shard of glass, he cut at the tie, using his feet to put it under a strain that nearly dislocated his wrist.

The screaming continued from next door of someone in terrible danger. He rolled off the bed, kicked the connecting door down and rushed into the next room, glass shards in his hand ready to throw.

But his feet stumbled to stop, recognizing there was no threat before his brain processed it entirely.

The room was empty. There was a recorder and a set of speakers on a low table between two arm chairs. That was where the sound was coming from.

Then a hand reached from one of the arm chairs and turned off the audio, and he realized the room wasn't actually empty.

A woman's voice said coolly, "That was recorded on a cell phone when the Hulk and Abomination tore through Harlem." She stood up - red headed, beautiful, lithe, and deadly, even if she was wearing jeans and a black t-shirt. He recognized her, too, with a sense of astonishment at her appearance here.

"Natasha?"

She smiled faintly at him. "John."

He inhaled a breath and let it out, trying to get rid of the adrenaline, and set down the bulb shards on the table. He rubbed at his sore wrist and, even with his headache, it took only a moment to figure out what was going on. "You work for SHIELD now?" he asked.

She nodded. "For the past year. Fury offered me a new chance. He's offering it to you, too."

"I told him I don't want it."

"I'd say nearly cutting off your hand to get there in time to save someone makes that a lie."

He shut his eyes, wishing for a drink to bury it all, and he shook his head.

"You could be there for the next one," Natasha said. "You could help them."

_Help_. It was tempting. After so much death and destruction, so many lives ruined and destroyed, if he could change things… do good…

It made him want to laugh bitterly at himself. "Do good." Hopelessly naïve was what that was. There was no good, not after everything. He'd once thought he was doing good, only to find the evil of his past continued, and every spark of light drowned in the inky black of good intentions turned to selfish and terrible ends.

She added more quietly, "You know me. You know what I've done. But we don't have to do that- we don't have to be that anymore."

"And if we don't know how to be anything else?" he asked, glancing at the shards of glass he'd been prepared to use to kill.

"If I can learn, so can you. We're not that different." She took a step closer and her voice softened. "You saved me, John."

He shook his head again and echoed what he'd always said in debrief about the mission and the failed killshot. "There was a wind gust. I missed."

She snorted. "You had the shot. You missed deliberately. I saw. I always wanted to ask why, after all that I'd done."

"We knew each other. I couldn't do it." It was true that they'd been acquainted, over a few years of crossing each other's paths, but it wasn't true that the acquaintance had spared her. It wouldn't have, except he had accessed her whole file when he'd received the mission to kill her. He'd learned about her childhood training and it had reminded him of the hell he'd lived. She became akin to the brothers and sisters he'd lost and in her, he'd seen what they might have lived to become. So in a brief moment of sentiment, he'd pulled his shot, hitting her in the shoulder and letting her escape.

She smiled a little, not believing him, but let it go. "You saved my life. Let me save yours, John. Join us. Join SHIELD. We can save other people."

He looked at the speakers and thought back to the ruins Coulson had shown him. Hulk wasn't the only one, he knew that, too. There were others being created and altered into something more than human.

"You're persuasive," he said heavily, wondering if this was going to be a terrible mistake.

"You'll do it." It wasn't a question; she already knew he'd decided.

"I'll do it. But if it turns into more of the same, I'm gone. And I'm burning it down behind me," he promised, meaning every word. No more. Not again.

Not ever.

She returned his gaze steadily. "If that happens, I'll help you. Welcome to SHIELD." She touched her earpiece and said aloud, "He's in."

* * *

John had been on aircraft carriers a few times before, but the SHIELD helicarrier was a different beast. From the helicopter as they came in, he could see the massive size of it.

But more impressively, it was flying.

He wanted to laugh. Good luck getting to me now, Mark. Can't clean it up if you can't fly.

He stood on the deck, next to Natasha, looking around, automatically cataloging the exits (few at this altitude with the craft chained down, but three visible hatches, two ventilation ducts, and the elevator to the hangar deck) and weapons (many).

"Come on," she said and led him toward the main hatch into the control tower.

He buttoned his suit jacket to keep it from flapping in the wind and followed her. Inside, the military environs seemed familiar, and he passed other soldiers and guards on the way. For a moment, he wanted that uniform - any uniform, really - back, along with the feeling as if he belonged to something again and be one of many, not only one.

But those days were long gone.

Natasha led him to a large control room. It had an large window taking up the entire forward wall, people looking at screens in lowered areas and a command level, and then an observation area above. It was good for visibility and terrible for security. With one clip and a grenade, he could do some damage, and with double the arms, he could take it alone.

His eyes met Natasha's, who returned the glance with a knowing look of agreement and the faintest nod, and then she led him toward where Fury was standing with a woman in a sharp blue uniform.

"Ah, Agent Reese," Fury greeted, beckoning him nearer. "Welcome aboard."

John looked around the expansive room. "I'd wondered what six billion dollars a year would buy."

"You like my toy?" Fury asked.

"It's impressive."

"That it is." Fury noticed John's glance at the woman next to him, and introduced, "John Reese, this is Agent Maria Hill, XO of this boat."

"Agent Hill." He nodded and she held out her hand to shake his.

"Agent Reese." She glanced at Fury. "The Director mentioned he'd recruited you. Welcome aboard." Her expression held a little confusion and he assumed Fury had recruited him without her knowledge - it had been a bit rushed, he presumed, with the Agency no doubt also alerted to his surfacing.

No, it hadn't been surfacing - that implied intent, not the impulsive, drunken stupidity of his move on the subway. He should've just let the punks take his bottle, but the rage had rushed up from somewhere deep inside, unstoppable, and he'd taken them all down. Now here he was. Joining SHIELD. This was probably just as foolish and impulsive.

Yet he remembered Natasha's recording and her words, and wondered whether maybe he could help. Maybe it was true. Maybe he could stop the monsters before they became monsters.

It was enough to get him to follow Natasha into another room where Coulson was waiting. "Ah, you are here," John observed.

"I am. Thank you, Agent Romanoff," he said to her in dismissal.

She nodded and glanced at John. "See you later." It was almost a flat statement, but her lips smiled a little and she gave a little nod of promise that she meant it, before she slipped out the door.

Coulson gestured him to take a chair at the large conference table, and when John picked a seat, Coulson sat beside him and put down a large folder and a pen. "I have documents. Nothing you didn't see at the Agency."

John opened the folder - employment contract, non-disclosure agreement, health questionnaire, even a 401K election form. He glanced up. "Seriously?"

"We have a very competitive benefits package. Agent Romanoff didn't mention that in her recruitment pitch?" Coulson asked, a little dryly. John thought they were going to get along.

"Funny, no, she didn't mention paperwork as a draw." John picked up the pen and then stopped, frowning. "What name do you want me to use?"

Coulson shrugged. "Whatever you want. We'll set up the identity if you'd like something new."

It was tempting. Choose something new, become someone else. Leave everything behind. But he'd already tried that, more than once, and it never worked. Maybe this time he should do the opposite. So he put John Matthew Reese on all the forms and signed his name. It wasn't the last name he'd joined the Army under, since that name was dead, and it wasn't his true family name, because that one he held to himself. There was a touch of defiance in using the same last name the Agency had given him.

He left the address and contact information empty and in the previous employment section, he wrote "classified" in big letters, with a bit of a smile. The beneficiary space gave him pause. A man who didn't exist had no beneficiary. No family. No friends. Nothing. No one to inherit anything. No one to mourn him when he was dead.

His hand tightened until the pen snapped with a crack, that made them both jump. "Sorry," he muttered.

"You can, uh, change it whenever you like," Coulson told him and slipped the papers into the folder. "Follow me. Now that you're an employee we'll go to requisitions and then I'll show you where you'll bunk."

John opened his mouth to say how he was going to repay Coulson for his generosity yesterday, that had let him buy new clothes and, more importantly, reminded him of who he'd been long enough to want to clean up. Maybe not enough to get sober last night, but at least shave and cut his hair and remember to care about being human again.

But he didn't say it. Once he had a pay check - and he really should have looked at that contract to notice what his pay would be, but it didn't matter all that much - he'd pay Coulson back every penny. Glancing at his … handler… since that's really what Coulson was, he knew that Coulson knew that already.

At requisitions, which worked like any base PX John had ever been to, with the added complication that John wasn't in the system yet, but after Coulson vouched for him and signed some forms, he was able to get underclothes, BDUs in blue and olive, and a toiletry kit.

Then to his surprise, Coulson laid a jacket on the pile in John's arms. It was navy blue, casual like a windbreaker but soft, with SHIELD patches on the shoulders. "My division doesn't wear the uniform, like Agent Hill's does," he explained, "but I thought you might like some team colors to wear."

Which he would, and he managed a bit of a smile at Coulson. "Thanks."

Coulson nodded. "Your quarters are this way."

The room turned out to be private with a bed along one wall, sink, desk and closet. "Really?" he asked, having expected a bunk room.

"We try to take care of our agents when they're home," Coulson explained. "It's tiny, but it's yours."

Home.

John wanted to feel disdainful about the whole idea of this carrier being a home, but he couldn't. He knew what a home was, even though he'd never really had one. Even though he'd let it go and then he'd let it die. But this place was a job; the closest thing he'd had to home lately had been the homeless camp on 48th.

He had to turn away from Coulson to put away his new belongings, and wait until the shaking in his hands had subsided before he turned back. "Ready."

It was mostly true.

* * *

John crept out on to the deck, feeling the cold wind on his face, and avoided two guards to find a seat at the base of the forward radar array. He tipped his head back against the metal, wondering what the hell he was doing.

"You should probably be inside. They'll think you're up to no good, sneaking around." Natasha's voice said suddenly to his left. His hand tightened as if to grab a sidearm and his shoulders twitched with surprise. She moved up next to him.

He shrugged and stayed where he was. He'd wanted air and the stars, and gotten both. It was chilly but not anything he couldn't ignore for a little while. "Couldn't sleep."

She lowered her voice. "You okay?"

"Needed air." Actually what he needed was a drink, but he didn't say it. Natasha seemed to know what he meant anyway.

"You want to spar?" she offered. "That'll help clear it out faster."

It would get rid of the alcohol, true enough, and maybe a hard enough fight would let him sleep without it. Every time he closed his eyes he saw their faces: Jessica of course, but the others too. All those he had failed to save. Alcohol washed away the stench of death that followed him around.

"Come," she urged. "I have so few good sparring partners."

He shook his head, amused, but climbed to his feet. "You want to kick my ass."

"It is not my fault you've been drinking yourself into a coma since, what? February? You're out of practice."

She led him to a large open space with a padded floor and one wall of mirrors. He hung his jacket on a hook in the wall and they both took off their footwear. Then he went to the center of the floor and inhaled a deep breath. "Okay."

He didn't even manage to get a hit on her, before she had him on the floor. She looked down with a smile. "You're not trying, John."

"It's not connecting." He climbed to his feet and shook his head. "I feel sluggish."

She beckoned him in. "You attack, I'll defend. Move."

He still felt stiff as he attacked, and she blocked him easily, dancing backward. "This is not the skill you used against me before. I thought I was exaggerating the comment about drinking yourself into a coma," she said, frowning at him.

"You moved me without waking me up," he pointed out.

"That was a narcotic," she admitted. "But yes, you were drunk enough you let me stick you with a needle. I could have killed you."

"Glad you didn't."

"Well, that's a start." She returned to the middle of the floor. "Again. Harder. Come at me."

He attacked again, feeling a little better, but figuring he deserved it when she got impatient and kicked him in the stomach. "Again."

The fourth time through, he was sweating but he felt smoother and quicker, a bit more like his old self. His strikes had authority and precision, and even though she was still faster, it was closer and mixing up his style momentarily caught her off balance, prompting her into attack mode.

He threw an elbow, she spun out of the way, and then he had to duck the foot she had up at his head, but she was too quick and took him to the floor with her other leg. They both rolled clear, and she flipped to her feet with enviable flexibility.

"Much better! That's closer to the John I remember. Again." Her eyes were alight with the joy of the combat, and he had to admit he was getting into it, too.

* * *

"_Phil_," Maria's voice murmured and he stirred from the cot and groped tiredly for the intercom. "_Are you awake_?"

"Maria?" he asked sleepily.

"_They're sparring. Turn on your terminal, I'll send you the feed_."

There was only one 'they' that Maria would wake him up about: Natasha and the new guy. He hurried to the terminal in the corner of the room, and turned it on. The monitor blinked and booted up, switching to a feed of one of the workout rooms.

Phil was always impressed when he saw Natasha fight. She was athletic and graceful, and deadly. He'd never seen John fight, but he knew as former special ops John would have had very thorough hand-to-hand training and he'd had that childhood training as well. He didn't move as much as she did, with a fighting style that required a little more defense in hard blocks but for a large man, he didn't lack for speed. They struck at each other, blocked and attacked, settling into a fast rhythm, that they both tried to break at the same moment, launching attacks. He lunged into her to throw her, while her feet hooked around his neck and flipped him. They both ended up on the floor.

John's chest was heaving for breath as he lay flat on his back with no apparent inclination to rise again. "Damn, I don't think I've done that for years."

She lay next to him, breathing a bit hard herself with a sheen of sweat on her face. "You're still holding back."

He shook his head negative. "I'm out of practice."

"Yes, you are, but you're also holding back." She twisted around and sat up next to him. "You hesitated. Pulled your strikes."

"I … wasn't trying to," he protested.

"I know," she said. "And I won't take it as an insult because I know it's nothing to do with me. But we have to train you through it because any decent fighter will exploit it."

He didn't answer right away, closing his eyes in weariness, and when he did speak, the microphone almost didn't pick up his soft voice, "I'm so tired of killing."

She looked at him, and after a moment she lay down at his side on the mat again. "Me, too."

Phil flicked off the monitor, leaving them their privacy. He wasn't quite sure what he had done to deserve handling the reformed assassins and spies, but at least he had the consolation of knowing they were good people at heart, no matter their pasts. Though come to think of it, they all handled each other: Barton had been the first, and he'd brought Natasha in, and now it seemed she was passing it on to John. Hopefully Hawkeye and John would get along; both seemed calm enough they would likely work together fine. And it might be good for Clint to have some competition in the marksmanship department.

He would recall Hawkeye in a few days, after John had settled in a bit more, and see how it went.

* * *

For his first night on the Helicarrier, after his sparring with Natasha, John lay wakeful in bed. His body was physically tired after the fight and all that happened yesterday, but his mind was wakeful.

His hand reached reflexively for the bottle on the bedside table, but it wasn't there. He folded his hands under his head and stared at the dim reaches of the ceiling until they blurred.

_Tomorrow I start the job. Tomorrow I find out if Natasha's right or this will be more of the same self-serving bullshit. And when did I start taking the word of a known contract assassin anyway? Because I like her? Because she has a pretty face? Because she said words I wanted to hear? I shouldn't be that gullible when a secret organization with the capability to build this ship in secret is involved._

_Keep your eyes open, learn what you can, and don't take what they say as the truth. There's always more to it. Always._

He rolled over onto his side, punching the pillow restlessly. He'd once had the skill to nap anywhere. Spying and military missions involved a lot of airplane flights in dismal corners of the world, surveillance, and waiting around. But sleep was elusive still.

_Space aliens. Genetic freaks. Altered humans. And, be honest, people like you. You know what that psycho Essex did to you. It failed mostly, but that doesn't mean it didn't work better on others. You know what you can do, and you know what you did when you were on the wrong person's leash. You know what too much power in the wrong hands leads to, and you know those people need to be stopped. That was never the problem._

He tried to push the thoughts away and clear his mind. But that led to indulging in memories of being happy, of love. Sea breezes and her smile. Sand in the bed, and the salty taste of her lips.

But he couldn't stay in those memories as sleep pulled him down.

_He walked the dark, empty hall of Jessica's house, and all the photos in the frames were of her face mutely accusing him for his failure. But they warped into other images, of the other children from the past. The deeper he walked into the house the hall changed and lengthened, grew dark. _

_Somewhere far away, there was screaming as one of the boys took another 'treatment.' He passed a room and looked inside the open door. He knew what he would see: eight children in there, in identical white shirts and shorts, sparring. He saw himself, the tallest there, fighting a smaller boy. _

_Essex was there, overseeing. "You must at all times be vigilant. Only the best survive."_

_Even as adult John stared at Essex and young John, another Essex, tall and slim with red eyes like a demon, took hold of John's arm in the hall. "Time for treatment, John."_

_But it wasn't him in the chair, it was a young boy with big dark eyes - he'd been in the wrong house on the wrong end of John's gun in a raid and they'd said to kill everyone in the compound - and it was John pulling the lever that would make the kid scream._

John woke with a gasp, eyes flying open to search for proof that he wasn't back there. He sat up, running hands through his sweat-dampened hair, and took deep breaths to calm down.

_That was more than twenty years ago. Get a fucking grip._

When he glanced at the clock it was 0520. There was no point in trying to sleep, so he rolled off the bed to the floor to do push-ups and crunches, and start getting himself back in shape again.

At least he could work on the physical, and mental would just have to follow along.

* * *

tbc...


	2. Chapter 2

Phil found Reese in the mess for breakfast, alone. He had his back to the corner, and Phil wondered if he had any idea that he was in one of the most desirable seats in the entire mess. He probably did, but he sat there with an untouchable confidence that no one could make him move if he chose not to go. Given he'd been drinking himself to death just a day or two ago, it was a pretty impressive change. Phil wondered how much of it was real, and how much was bravado or simple willpower. Whatever it was, Phil hoped it continued to improve. His military record, even the redacted parts, listed a Purple Heart and other commendations of bravery and skill, and Phil knew he had re-enlisted after 9/11 to put his skills back to work in an area of the world he'd already fought in once.

So the problem wasn't that John doubted his skills, because he didn't. He was out of practice, but as last night's sparring with Romanoff had shown, he wasn't all that rusty. So it was something else that had struck him such a blow - certainly he was sick of the dark projects the Agency gave him, but Phil didn't know if that was enough.

John was drinking coffee and peeling a banana, while watching the news feed on the tv. He was wearing his camouflage BDU's and the SHIELD jacket, and seemed more casual than dangerous. But it seemed even other highly trained agents were giving him the wide berth they gave to Romanoff, perhaps on the strength of her association.

Phil glanced at the tv coverage, but it was something about hockey. He set down his tray on John's table. "May I join you?"

John's free hand waved him to take a seat. "Sure. You're the boss, right?"

Phil shook his head. "Not at all. Fury, he's the boss. But yes, I'm your liaison. Handler. In the field I'll be your main connection to SHIELD. Just like I am for Agent Romanoff. And right now it's my job to get you up to speed." He sat down and leaned forward. "Now I know and you know that you have no shortage of military and CIA experience - hell, you could probably teach me - so I'm not going to insult your intelligence with basic training crap. We'll run a few evaluations to see where you're at now, get you caught up to SHIELD policies on ROE and the like, and give you some background on what we do."

"Sounds like what I expected."

But Phil noticed he was still watching the t.v. and Phil turned to see what he found so intriguing. "You like hockey?"

John shook his head. "No. The crawl. Kidnappings in Mazatlan. Calderon, I bet. He's a thug. I took a team after him in 2008, but he was tipped off and got away. Took down a facility of his."

"You have a lot of experience with the cartels, don't you?"

John nodded and finished his banana. "Mostly in the Army. But some later."

"That'll be useful; I'll have the section debrief you on the current situation. But the cartels are not our main area of focus."

"Right. Space aliens."

Phil was impressed with the sheer weight of dry sarcasm John could put into two blandly spoken words and a glance from his pale blue eyes.

"You want to see?" Phil asked, impulsively and stood up. "Come."

John returned his tray and dumped his trash, military instincts requiring him to clean up, even while Phil waited for him. Then Phil took him to the research level and used his keycard to open the heavy door. They went through and into another broad passage, this one with impact-proof windows lining it.

On the left hand side, suited scientists were in the same room as a large _thing_ on a table. It was some kind of robot, and although it was inert and nothing they'd done to it could spark it back to function, the bright lights in the room shone down on something which was very definitely not of this Earth.

At his side, John looked at it. "What the hell is that?"

"It's not from this planet. It came through an interdimensional portal and attacked Puente Antiguo in New Mexico two months ago."

Phil liked how John didn't seem either confused or too awed by that, he just was interested in the practicalities. "How'd you kill it?"

"We didn't. That was… someone else who came through with it." That was one of those things Coulson didn't really want to think about. Whether classed as an alien or demigod, Thor's power had been beyond anything SHIELD knew how to handle. Thankfully he seemed like a good guy, but still, that much power in one being was anxiety provoking. At least he was gone, leaving behind only this thing. "It could fire a plasma blast from its head, walk, and was impervious to all projectile weaponry. Even a 50mm shell."

"Damn."

"You think it's impressive in there, it was more impressive destroying tanks. Director Fury wants to access the power source, but so far, no luck."

John snorted his disapproval of that plan. "I'd find the remote control, before I risked waking it up."

"Is that your professional assessment?" Coulson asked, meaning it as a joke, but John took him seriously turning away from the window to face him.

"My professional assessment is that a weapon you don't know how to use and could turn against you is worse than no weapon at all."

"You're not the first to say that," Coulson admitted. He didn't much like having it on board either; it should go with the other Phase II stuff in the bunker with the tesseract, not here. But that had been Fury's decision, given the lab here and the potential for hooking it up as a power source for the helicarrier. "Come on. I'll show you the shooting range where you can show off."

"I haven't fired a gun in awhile," John warned. "I'm not going to be showing off anything."

Coulson scoffed as he led the way out of the labs. "I've read your file. Your out-of-practice is going to beat most of the people on this boat."

"Not Natasha."

"I did say 'most'." Coulson almost smiled, thinking of Barton who had gotten his recall and was due tomorrow.

At the shooting range, which was double-armor plated all around as well as sound-proofed, he checked out a Glock for John for target shooting, to check his status. Then he stood at the back to watch, wearing earmuffs, as John emptied a clip at the paper target.

When they brought the target forward, he saw that John had put a golf ball-sized hole through the center. Phil looked at it and glanced at John. "If this is out of practice, what the hell do you do when you're in practice?"

John didn't look impressed by his grouping, sticking a finger through the hole and wiggling it around. "The same hole."

Phil nodded slowly. "That's why they were so convinced you missed on purpose with Agent Romanoff. Did you pull your shot?" he asked, knowing John had because he'd admitted as much to her, but curious what John would say.

"No. It was windy, and she was too quick for me to get a second shot in," John answered flatly, echoing his report by rote.

"Did you actually pass a lie detector with that answer?" Phil asked curiously, letting John know that Phil didn't buy the story any more than his previous employers had.

John glanced at him, and then smiled ever so faintly - it was a highly dangerous look - and it was a definite warning when he answered, "I pass all of them, Agent Coulson."

Then he picked up another clip to reload and the conversation was over. Romanoff wandered in to watch the practice session, her cool eyes watching, and Coulson waved her to join him outside to talk.

"So?" Phil asked her. "Your evaluation?"

"He's about sixty percent, maybe seventy." She glanced through the glass. "It's been months since he used any of his skills. It'll take time to get back."

"You think he can."

"Yes. The sooner you can send us on a mission the better."

He lifted his eyebrows at that. "Together? Even though he's not back, you'd risk that?"

"He'll recover better on a mission, not here. What's wrong is not a lack of practice." She hesitated. "They misused him, Phil. As Red Room did to me."

"But you trust him to work with you?"

"I do," she answered, and he was shocked. There were few people she would pick as a partner. Barton was the only one she actually asked for, and this amount of trust on short amount of acquaintance was a surprise. Her gaze flicked to the window where they could see just John's shoulder as he fired at the target. "There was an American airstrike in China, near the desert."

Phil nodded, frowning, wondering what she was getting at. "The chemical weapons plant. Last year." At least that had been the justification and China had been embarrassed enough about whatever they had been doing there, that they hadn't made a big stink about it.

"John was there."

Phil had no idea how she knew that, but there was no reason to doubt her. He thought back to the file and realized that was when the CIA had officially declared him KIA. They'd been so sure he was dead because they'd set him up themselves. Some of those bastards made the KGB and the Taliban look like fluffy bunnies. "Fury knows about this. That's why he knew they'd want John dead." Then he realized what else it meant. "John knows something; something they were trying to kill." And Fury wanted that information. Whatever John knew, that was the real reason Fury had wanted to save him.

Natasha watched John, frowning, and her voice softened. "He deserves better, Phil."

"I'll watch out for him," Phil promised, meaning it, remembering the soft confession he'd heard last night.

So, a mission. Some sort of caretaking mission. Something important, but not something that required John at full capacity yet.

* * *

tbc...


	3. Chapter 3

**Note: **To answer a common question, no, Finch does not appear in this story, though he's definitely out there somewhere. But the story is John Reese, Agent of SHIELD, and how his life changes when someone else rescues him.

In this chapter, John meets Hawkeye and finds that coming alive again has side-effects.

* * *

.

John woke early and went to run the treadmill and watch the news, trying to get himself reacquainted with the world again.

He was halfway through his run, already dripping with sweat and inwardly moaning at how out of shape he'd let himself get, when Agent Hill entered, wearing her workout gear of shorts and layered tanktops. She was very fit and made him want to switch to the weight machine in embarrassment at his own lack. "Agent Reese," she greeted with a bit of a smile. "Good morning. I'm glad to see you out and about." She got on the elliptical and started; she moved fluidly, he noticed, a bit like Natasha which meant she'd probably had dance or yoga training as well.

"Thanks." It was good to be out and about, working again, concentrating on doing something useful. Not that he'd done anything really useful yet, but getting himself back in fighting trim was necessary prep and it felt good to lose himself in exercise and sparring. It was not quite as good as the bottle, and the dreams were still bad, but there was less of a consequence the next day than drinking down cheap whiskey and gin.

"Agent Barton is arriving in a few hours," she told him. "He's the last member of Coulson's team. So you'll get to meet him. Unless you already know him? Clint Barton?"

His step slowed a moment, nearly dumping him off the treadmill before he recovered, as he tried to chase down the sense of familiarity. He knew the name from something, a past briefing perhaps. "No, we've never met, that I know of."

"I wondered. He was a freelancer, for a while," Hill explained. "Before he came to work for us."

'Freelancer' meant mercenary. John was more likely to have been briefed on him then. He often heard about those he either would or might oppose on some missions. "I might recognize him," John said. "Names tend to be easily changed. Did he specialize?"

"Sniper. He uses a bow." She glanced at him, saw the recognition, and said, "Ah, you know of him then."

Only one person used a bow as a signature on the international scene: "Hawkeye" - sniper, archer, infiltrator, assassin. John had thought it was fairly ridiculous as a weapon, but there was no question he got results with it. He answered Hill, "It's not common. I didn't know he was part of SHIELD now."

"Two years now. Phil recruited him." She frowned. "Not quite sure how, to be honest. But between them, Phil and Director Fury can be pretty persuasive."

"I noticed."

She chuckled. "I bet."

They fell quiet as breath got a little harder to keep hold of, and John finished up his run, panting but thinking. As he went to the shower, he wondered ... himself, Barton, Natasha… What the hell was Fury collecting assassins for? To take them off the market and give them useful, non-evil work? Or something more nefarious? What kind of missions had Hawkeye and Black Widow undertaken for SHIELD in the past two years? He knew of nothing particularly terrible, but that just meant they'd been successful at keeping it quiet.

But Nat had said they were trying to do good. But then maybe she would, to tell him what she thought he wanted to hear.

He closed his eyes and let the water hit him in the face, trying to wash the doubt away. He told himself he could be wary without wallowing in cynicism or paranoia, at least until these keepers proved just as corrupt as his others had been.

Finishing up his reading on SHIELD's rules of engagement, he felt a little better. Nothing in there was particularly objectionable for an organization that was openly an intelligence and operations division, though he felt very uneasy with the refusal of the papers to identify the world leaders who were ultimately holding the leash of funding, beyond the United States. There were other nations involved, and the UN Security Council, but not exactly those members, and he spent twenty fruitless minutes attempting to find out exactly who sat on the "World Council".

But before his uneasiness could rise into outright anxiety, Natasha came to find him. "Come on. You need to meet someone."

He followed her, curious to meet Hawkeye.

He turned out to be about John's own age, not as tall, but solidly built, and have a very intense gaze that John could very well believe catch sight of a mouse a block away, as the stories went. That gaze flicked between Natasha and him, frowning a bit curiously, but without recognition.

"Clint, this is John Reese, newest recruit," Natasha introduced. "John, Clint Barton."

"The one they call Hawkeye," John said and held out his hand.

Barton shook his hand but his frown deepened, "You know? That puts you in a pretty select group."

"Langley for seven years," John explained. "We never crossed paths, though, not that I remember."

"Langley. That means spook," Barton said, almost dismissively, but his gaze flipped back, not content with that analysis then to Natasha again. "Is this a backhanded way to tell me Coulson's reassigned as our handler? Because I don't like that."

She shook her head. "No. John's going to be field, like us."

"Really?"

John almost smiled and shook his head. "Delta Force."

"Ah." There was a wealth of understanding in that single syllable. "Not a desk jockey then."

"No," John answered, though it couldn't have been much of a question. Delta Force was the Army elite, detailed to extractions and assassinations. He told most people the Purple Heart was for Kuwait but it had actually been earned rescuing hostages from the Shining Path guerrillas. He'd thrown himself over the ambassador's little boy, taken out two of the enemy, and carried the boy out before he'd even realized he'd been shot.

"You have a specialty?" Barton asked. "Besides military badass?"

"Sniper."

"Really. So you're something of a marksman?" Barton asked, a competitive gleam in his eyes. John had seen that before in guys who thought they were good until John showed them they weren't quite as good as they thought. There was a reason the military had kept bumping him into more specialized squads; he didn't miss. But on the other hand, rumor had it, Hawkeye didn't either.

But John answered mildly, not wanting to get into a pissing contest, especially when he wasn't completely on the top of his game. "Something like that."

Natasha looked from one to the other, smiling a little and sensing the tension. "Play nice. We're on the same team."

"I guess. I just don't see what your special interest is," Barton said to her.

She glanced at John as if for permission and he nodded once. It made no difference really, now, if Barton knew. She told him, "You were sent after me, because the person before you failed to kill me. John was that person."

"So you missed," Barton said, a smug smirk on his lips.

She shook her head even when John was about to agree, simply to lay it to rest. "No," she said. "He hit his target. He pulled the shot."

"That's true?" Barton asked John.

John didn't answer right away, years of denial wanting him to deny it again, but then he nodded his head once.

"Clint," Natasha said and stepped closer to put her hand on Barton's arm in a gesture suggestive of some kind of intimacy. Natasha didn't do that, not for real, but he'd bet any amount of money that it was real now. John found his eyes tracking her hand, before he forced himself to look up to watch her talk to Barton, her expression soft. "I would never have gone with you, and I could never have chosen to leave, if John hadn't shown me that goodness for people like us is still possible. You led me out, and I'll owe you for that forever, but John showed me I could. He had no reason to spare me, but he did."

Barton considered that then turned his head back to John. "Why? Why'd you spare her?"

"She reminded me of someone." John shrugged, unable to explain it for himself very well, and unable to explain it at all without telling him about the experiments and those other kids. Natasha glanced at him with a curious frown.

"So you missed," Barton repeated, but this time the smile was teasing. "I don't miss."

"Right, you didn't miss, because you didn't complete the mission at all. Not sure that's better, Barton," Natasha retorted, then added for John's benefit, "Certainly there was some… explaining. Nobody was happy about his choice to bring me in."

"Wait, you were supposed to kill her, and you brought her in, instead?" John asked, a little incredulous. He'd never have done that. Never have tried it. He'd barely been able to get away with wounding her. If he'd tried to bring her in as a defector, she'd have been interrogated and killed, and him with her.

"It seemed like such a waste. I just felt like she deserved a chance," Barton answered, seeming uncomfortable suddenly. It was clearly not all of the story. "And I was right."

"I'm glad you did," John said. "Then she gave that chance to me. So I owe you."

Barton flashed a grin. "Good, then you won't mind too much when I win."

"You wish." Then, just because he hadn't felt camaraderie like this since his Ranger days, he smiled a little and added, needling Barton, "I'm sure you're very good with your medieval weapon…"

"Medieval? Have you seen it?" Barton was offended, but not seriously, arguing in rather overblown defense of his favorite weapon, "There's nothing primitive about it. It's fast, silent, deadly, and perfectly accurate over the same distance. I can blow shit up and shoot an escape line, if I want. Can your fancy sniper rifle do that?"

Natasha cleared her throat. "If you are both quite finished comparing weapon sizes… Agent Hill and Phil wanted you to check in, Clint. John and I will be in the martial arts practice room. You should join us."

"Okay. Later. Nat. New guy." Barton headed off, while John and Natasha went the other way to head for practice.

"He recruited you for SHIELD?" John asked her.

"He was sent to clean up your mistake," she said. "He made a different call, too." Her gaze was distant with memory. "Not only didn't he kill me, but he told me we don't have to be those people. I believed him, even though it seemed impossible to come back across that line."

He nodded silently, hoping it was true.

She continued, changing the subject, "You need more practice at the range before you have a chance against him."

"He's that good?"

"Better. But so are you." She smiled at him, teasing, "I hear Phil intends to sell tickets to the match, so you better make it worth his while."

John wasn't bothered by the idea of a competition, since he'd faced his share. He wasn't even particularly bothered by the possibility of losing since there was always someone better out there and his ego wasn't a delicate flower, but he was intrigued by Barton being so good. John had always thought that his own talent had been boosted by the treatments, since he was definitely an outlier for 'normal' humans, which suggested Barton probably was, too. Some kind of mutant gift, perhaps, or even some kind of external enhancement like his own.

John had never quite seen the point in the drawing a line between the two groups as so many did - nor why an external enhancement was somehow better than a genetic mutation. Born with it or given it, what difference was there? It was just another way to say different and he'd seen enough evil everywhere in the world based in hate and jealousy over those who were different, to know it was a path he didn't want to take.

Natasha glanced at him. "Thought that'd get a rise out of you."

He shrugged. "I've played that game before. It doesn't bother me if he's better, any more than it bothers me that you beat me in hand-to-hand." But then he couldn't resist and added, "But you know I'm still gonna kick his ass, right?"

Surprised, she flashed a bright smile at him and he was suddenly stunned by how beautiful she was. Which he knew - anyone who looked knew she was attractive - but when she smiled, genuinely, and her eyes lit up, he wanted to stare. Instead he turned away, bothered by the reaction.

He didn't need that, and not with someone who might be involved with Barton already. They certainly seemed on a level of intimacy that he didn't see her display toward anyone else.

But the realization made him drag his feet a little while he was getting undressed to spar, hoping Barton made it back before Natasha decided the two of them should spar on their own. But Barton took too long, and when she nudged him for being slow, he threw in the figurative towel and moved to the middle of the floor.

It was as if he'd suddenly woken up and the world had new colors in it, though. Her hair was long with a bit of curl to it and when she was in her work catsuit, her figure was lithe and perfect. When she was fighting her eyes glowed with delight, even if her expression was intent and focused.

Luckily she was fierce enough that his sudden emotional crack was soon buried under the pressure of having to defend himself. This time he got a good elbow in her side, surprising her, and when she went for his knees this time, he was able to evade.

He still got winded too quickly though, and soon she slammed him to the mat, kneeling across him and her hand on his chest. He tapped out hastily, before she had any inkling of the sudden jolt she was giving him seeing and feeling her atop him, and she slid off. "Better," she declared with an approving nod.

"Congrats," came the sardonic voice of Barton from the doorway. "Not too many hold out that long against her."

"I'm retraining him," she explained. "He's been out of the game for a year or so."

"When I get back in shape, I'll do better." John climbed to his feet, feeling clumsy and too big, as Natasha flipped to her feet.

"That's out of shape?" Barton asked, lifting his brows. "I wouldn't have guessed."

"I used to be fitter." He stretched out his spine, hearing it pop, and grimaced. "Younger, too."

"I'm going to teach you yoga. For fluidity," she told John and nodded thoughtfully more to herself, looking at him. "You still try to brute strength your way through, when flexibility would serve you better. I sense your native style is one with more movement, you need to free it."

Feeling put-upon suddenly, John glanced at Barton in appeal, and Clint shrugged back at him, lifting his hands in a helpless gesture, declining to help. "We're all just clay in her hands. But I'm a better fighter now, than I was, so I'd do what she suggests."

"Join us," she beckoned Barton forward. "Ballet would help you both, too."

"Forget it," both Barton and John said in unison, and she laughed.

"Yoga then, for the manly men," she mocked. "Our first position…. Do what I do."

Doing what she did proved to be easier said than done, but John was game to try. Yoga turned out to be pretty interesting with the other two there, sharing quips and stories, as Natasha took them through a punishing routine that she did with ease.

But at the end, it was worth the muscle burn. They had all had similar lives and ended up in similar places, and he was feeling a camaraderie with both of them that he hadn't felt for a long, long time.

* * *

tbc...


	4. Chapter 4

Phil watched as Barton and Reese sparred. He could see Natasha's influence already making Reese faster and more fluid. Barton was skilled too with more recent practice, and even so it was a pretty even match.

She stood beside him as they watched through the window, nodding in approval at an occasional move.

"They get along," Phil said. "I thought they might. Or hate each other because they have such similar skills."

"We'll see if it holds when they battle for real at the range. One of them is going to have to lose, and if it's Barton, he'll pout for days."

"Not Reese?"

"No. He thinks of it as a tool, where Clint's is a part of him."

Coulson wondered if that was because Reese hadn't been born with it. To him, it was an outside power that gave him the ability that he didn't want, since it was destructive and lethal and John didn't enjoy it. Whereas it had been a part of Clint since birth, and it was part of who he thought himself to be.

She added, "I told John you were going to sell tickets so he'd have to up his game."

"That's a good idea. Very motivational."

"And money-making."

"There will be no betting on the Helicarrier," he retorted, primly. "Boss wouldn't approve."

"What he doesn't know…"

He gave her a look, that suggested Fury knew everything they all did, every day, including what color underwear they had on. Phil wouldn't put it past Fury, some days.

Natasha's lips twitched in amusement. "You know exactly how to ruin everyone's fun."

Within, John slammed the heel of his hand right beneath Clint's ribs and he folded over with an audible _oof_, even outside the room, but instead of following up on his advantage, John stepped back. Phil was pretty sure that was because his next move would have been a seriously incapacitating one, especially when Natasha darted to the door when she saw the hit land.

"Barton?" John asked. "I thought you were going to block it."

Clint shook his head and straightened, looking rueful, and his voice was a little breathless. "Damn, you hit hard when you want to. Nice move, though."

"That's enough," Natasha declared. "You two are going to kill each other by accident." Not that either of them were truly likely to do that, but stupid things happened when they were tired.

Phil watched as his three pet assassins wandered away toward the showers, trading barbs as if all three had known each other for years, and he smiled to himself. It was working pretty well.

It was almost a shame that he had an assignment for John, but it needed to happen.

* * *

The message from Coulson came to him after he'd changed clothes and was heading for the firing range, and John left to find Coulson's office.

"I have a job for you." Coulson sat down in front of him. "Nothing strenuous, but we need some oversight. Have you heard of Captain America?"

John gave him a look. "I was in the Army, Coulson. Of course I have."

"And you grew up in a place with someone obsessed with him," Coulson said, and John froze, not expecting the reminder.

"Fury should never have told you." John snagged the folder. "So, some asshole tried it again?"

"Not exactly."

John flipped open the cover to be confronted with a photo he'd seen before. It was a copy of an old one from the Forties of a young man in a spangled outfit: Captain America. Practically every Army base had this photo or one like it posted as a good luck charm, memorial, whatever. It was tradition.

But beneath that well-known image there was another color photo of what looked like the same man, his eyes closed, stark pallor above the dark blue suit. It was too clear and colorful to be an old photo.

He lifted his eyes to Coulson, in surprise.

Coulson nodded. "The original one's alive. They dug Captain Steve Rogers out of the ice two weeks ago, and he's alive. It's really amazing. He woke up four days ago, sprang himself out of our facility in New York, and nearly got himself killed in Times Square. He's … confused. He missed sixty years."

"That's… incredible," John murmured. Captain America was alive, and had slept through the last six decades. Somehow it was even more amazing than finding out there were people from other worlds who'd visited Earth. The second he had sort of expected someday, but who the hell could've expected Captain Rogers to come back from the dead?

Then John was struck by the idea that Steve Rogers might have walked right past him on the street in New York. Strange. He tapped the folder. "So what do you want me to do?"

"Director Fury wants you to babysit," Coulson answered, with a refreshing lack of bullshit. "Don't let him do anything stupid. Get him to talk if you can."

"Sounds like he needs a shrink."

"He has one or two. But he could use someone who has some idea of where he's coming from. You're the closest I've got. And you can work an asset."

"Is that what he is?" John asked. "An asset?"

"Hell, no, he's a goddamn national treasure," Coulson snapped with sudden intensity. "A hero and now a living legend, so don't screw it up."

John raised his brows, and Coulson cleared his throat and shuffled the papers unnecessarily. "I, uh, studied him in school," he explained. "I never thought he would turn up."

"Maybe you should go talk to him," John teased. "If you're such a fan."

"That's not necessary," Coulson retorted a bit stiffly, and John hid a smile. It was always a good thing to have something on the boss. "Just see what you can do to help him out and get adjusted."

"I'll do my best," John promised. Thinking that whatever else he was, Rogers was probably really sick of people treating him like a living legend.

Later on, Natasha met him in the mess, slipping into the chair next to him. "I hear you're going to visit Captain America."

"Nice to know the base gossip machine works."

She ignored his mutter. "I read the file. He has greatly increased strength, stamina, resistance to pain-"

He interrupted, "I'm not going to fight him."

"You may not intend to fight him, but sometimes it happens. If you get into a fight, shoot him. He's not bullet-proof and it'll slow him down."

He eyed her and peeled his banana. "I'm not going to shoot Captain America. Coulson would kill me."

"He might try. You can take him." She said it as a flat statement of fact, and her face held only seriousness, as if she didn't get that he'd been joking.

But there was a glint of humor in her eyes, so he didn't buy it. He smiled a little, returning, "But then I'd get in trouble with Fury, and I like my current name."

She shook her head and rolled her eyes with more open amusement. "No wonder you and Phil get along. You both think you're funny."

"We are. Nobody else gets it, though."

"You're not back all the way," she advised. "You want to spar once more before you go?"

"More ass-kicking?" He gave a plaintive sigh and won a quick flick of her lips in a smile.

She rose from the table, lithe as a viper. "That is entirely up to you."

That was a lie. As she'd said, he wasn't back to form yet but he got a little closer this time. She was too well-trained against the usual military and Krav Maga style he generally used, so he found himself reaching back into his childhood training more to mix it up.

It felt a little … surreal. As if he wasn't quite present. That his body was fighting but his mind was back there, and then abruptly, he just … stopped.

Natasha pulled her counter-strike, realizing something was wrong. She frowned. "John?"

He glanced down at his hand, remembering so clearly that moment when he had struck out.

_His hand punched forward and Jimmy's neck went back with an audible crack. Jimmy kept falling backwards, slamming onto the thin mat. He lay utterly still, and in the sudden silence of the practice room, John heard and saw no breath, and the blank eyes didn't blink._

_Essex applauded. "Nicely done, John." He put a hand on John's shoulder. "Jimmy was careless and he paid the price. Let this be a lesson to you all, boys. You must be strong, or you will die."_

John blinked away the darkness and looked up at Natasha. "I … remember. I was back there. A kid. One of the other boys - I killed him. In training. He was trying to make another supersoldier, and made…" his voice faded to a whisper, "… me."

Her eyes held no horror, no judgment, only dawning understanding. "It was part of my training as well. Train children to kill children, so other people's lives become meaningless. Only survival."

He nodded, understanding, but still shocked. "What else don't I remember?" he whispered. "I thought I knew what happened in that place."

"They made us monsters," Natasha murmured. "But you escaped, John. You made it out."

He knew she hadn't escaped, and it made him terribly sad and upset on her behalf. But escaping hadn't made much of a difference - he knew all the other kids had died anyway and he'd ended up in the same pitch-black evil he'd tried to run away from - killing and torturing the innocent and guilty alike. He shook his head. "No, in a way, I don't think I ever really did."

"You did." She put her hand flat on his chest and looked into his eyes. "They could not crush this, John. All these people that try to use us and make us into weapons to kill, you're stronger than they are. You are better." He laid his hand over hers, but couldn't speak. But after a moment he drew in a breath and nodded slowly.

Then he smiled and squeezed her hand. "If it's true for me, it must be for you, too."

She shook her head and pulled free. "No, I'm a weapon."

He shook his head. "No. You're so much more than that, Natasha. Or you wouldn't have crossed that line to go with Barton."

"I know what I am, what they made me. Not like you -" she smiled a little sadly. "I know about the boy in Peru. You got into this mess because you want to protect people. You protected even me, because I reminded you of them. But I - I burned a hospital," she confessed, in a whisper. "So I could escape."

He seized her hands and she let him - her fingers were limp and cold in his. "If it hurts, you're not lost. Or, maybe we're both damned," he murmured. "But you told me we can still try. I believed you."

"Because you're a fool," she retorted harshly, turning away.

"Probably. But if you're lost, so am I. My ledger's full of the blood of innocents, too."

"John…" she protested.

"You see only the good in me, and only the evil in yourself." He reached out and gently coaxed her chin toward him. "But we're the same."

She raised her eyes to his, with slow reluctance, as if she knew he was right but she didn't want to admit it.

The sight of her beautiful face torn by doubt hit him like a visceral punch. He wanted to touch her skin and to kiss her lips, make that doubt go away, and it was hard to push it down. He was a little glad that he was getting off the carrier, after all.

She nodded a little, and he hoped she believed him. He continued, trying for a little levity from this deeply personal discussion, "Anyway, I think babysitting Captain America is a good thing, especially if I don't shoot him."

Her lips flickered in a smile. "You could throw a knife. Don't let him into close-quarters, or it's over."

He had to chuckle and teased, "Yes, mom. I'll be fine. I'll see you soon."

Raising a hand in farewell, he stepped away from her and left the room.

* * *

tbc...


	5. Chapter 5

This should've been up yesterday - but, holidays. There'll still be one on Friday, though, promise!

* * *

.

New York still felt like home to him. The sounds of the city were familiar, even from the back of the SHIELD towncar.

The female agent who had picked him up from the helipad didn't say much as she drove, beyond introducing herself as Grace Peltson, and so he didn't either. He was back in his civilian suit, and he sat in the passenger seat, looking at the people on the sidewalks and the shops as they headed toward mid-town.

He didn't smile but he felt more comfortable as they passed north of 45th. He knew all the streets on this part of town, knew the places to sleep, knew the soup kitchens, knew the restaurants who would give out their leftovers, the shop owners who would give him a couple of bucks to help unload supplies.

He also knew the gangs and thugs and the kids who wanted to be tough but were really only stupid. He knew the pimps and the dealers, and the innocents caught in the middle.

And here, apparently, Captain Steve Rogers was also living, which John hadn't known.

The car pulled up. "Do you want me to go with you?" she asked. "He knows me."

"No. It's all right."

"It's number three, in the back. And here," she handed him a card and a key. "The hotel next door is crummy but best we can do on short notice."

"It'll be fine." He pushed open the door and buttoned his suit jacket before heading up the short flight of stairs. The front door was open and there was someone dressed as a janitor who was cleaning the spotless floor with a gun at his waistband. He glanced up but didn't challenge him, which was both dedication to an unnecessary cleanliness and shoddy security. John was tempted to take the gun from him to teach him a lesson, but instead only shook his head and passed the manager's apartment and the stairs, heading for the back.

He knocked on number three. There was no answer, and so John knocked again.

He heard the sound of footsteps before the door was yanked open. "What?" an irritable voice demanded. "You usually let yourselves in." Bright eyes looked at John. "You're new. You a shrink?"

Steve Rogers was there, in the flesh. It was uncanny. He was wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants, on a muscular frame, and stood a little taller than John in his bare feet. For a moment it was … stunning, to be in front of Captain America, leader of the Howlin' Commandos, which was the ancestor of his own Ranger battalion.

John shook it off, though. Rogers was a man, like any other, and deserved to be treated like one. "No. My name is John Reese," he answered. "I work for SHIELD. I used to serve in the Army. Director Fury thought you might want to talk to someone who has a little more in common with you."

"Army huh? What division?" Rogers asked, narrowing his eyes as if he suspected that John was making it up.

"75th Airborne Ranger." He considered adding Delta Force, but Rogers wouldn't know what that meant since it hadn't been created until after Vietnam. He should know what Airborne and Rangers were, though. "I separated as Sergeant First Class."

Rogers nodded thoughtfully and his gaze catalogued John's hair, newly short again, and his stance, which tended toward attention, given Rogers' rank and status. "You've seen combat."

John just nodded once, and after a moment, Rogers opened the door more widely. "Come in."

He started down the hall, and John shut the door and followed. The apartment was good-sized for the neighborhood and obviously furnished with the knowledge that Rogers was a man out of time - there was a Seventies' era stereo system and turntable with albums, and a push-button wall phone. So it wasn't the Forties but it wasn't modern either, except for the sleek, flat television, which seemed particularly glaring in its modernity. "They couldn't find a television with a picture tube?" he asked.

"It's part of my education," Rogers said but he gestured to the books piled on the shelves. "But I'd rather read. You want a drink?"

The real answer to that was 'hell yes' but John answered, glancing at the bottle on the table, "Beer's fine, thanks."

Rogers brought one from the refrigerator in the small connected kitchen, pulled off the cap and brought him a glass, indicating he could take the couch. John sat, poured out the beer and took a measured sip.

"So," Rogers said, watching him over the rim of his own glass, "Rangers. I remember the First Battalion. Brave men, every one. That's a legacy to live up to."

"It is." Which he hadn't, not really. The Ranger creed burned into his bones, which he'd lived by for those years, had proven to be ephemeral as his honor.

Rogers frowned at him. "I'm pretty sure everyone who's talked to me has been Army. And I can't believe you're the only Ranger around. So, don't take this the wrong way, but why you?"

So, that meant he was going to have to talk about it. John studied his beer bubbles for a moment, before explaining, "The success of the supersoldier formula and your loss inspired a lot of people to try to recreate it. Including a man named Nathaniel Essex, who ran a boys' home in New Mexico where I lived while he tried to duplicate it. So, while it mostly didn't work on me, I'm your descendant, in a way."

Rogers seemed to hear what he didn't say and shook his head in pity. "I am so sorry."

"It's not your fault. You were sort of dead." He smiled a bit wryly. He knew what that was like, too. "I enlisted because of you, and I like to think that was the right thing to do." He regretted what his service had become, but he didn't regret the original decision: it had kept him out of prison and probably saved his life.

"I'm glad to hear that." Rogers set his beer down on the side table on top of a book, which looked like a history of the American military. "You said mostly it didn't work?" Rogers asked. "But that means it did, a little bit?"

John shrugged. "A little above average physically, nothing like you. Mostly I survived the treatments. There were others who weren't that lucky." The beer made a bitter but pleasant warmth that promised forgetfulness, and he drained his glass.

"The evil of some men to make children suffer…" Rogers murmured. "I hope Essex was brought to justice?"

"He's dead." John said, though he thought of it more as a relief than justice. Essex wasn't the first blood on his hands, and definitely had not been the last, but it was still the most satisfying.

John straightened and changed the subject. "Have you seen much of the city? They told me you ended up in Times Square, but I can show you around this part of town. I know it pretty well."

Rogers made a sad little smile. "I used to know it myself."

"Hell's Kitchen? Really?"

"Grew up here. Back, y'know, when it was all in black-and-white and sepia," he muttered, with a narrowed eyed glare at the books on the end table.

"There was color back then?" John asked, getting a look from Rogers until he realized John was dryly kidding.

But John decided that talking was probably not either of their strong points. Rogers would adjust if he saw the differences, not if he was holed up here in his time-warp apartment. And maybe he could also see that not everything had changed. There was still a lot of this part of town that wasn't that different. "Let's go. I'll show you the city as it is, and you tell me what it used to be." John stood up and waited until Rogers looked up to see that he was serious.

"They're not going to let me wander the city, on my own."

"You won't be; you'll be with me. Besides, what are they gonna do? Stop us? They can try."

Rogers brightened at hearing that, as if this was the first time someone had reminded him he could go where he wanted. He grabbed a leather jacket off the chair at the dining table, and slicked a hand over his hair. "Ready?"

"After you." John followed him out into the hallway, where he saw with some amusement that the 'janitor' was still pretending to clean the floor, except he looked up and stared at them in horror as he saw them both emerge.

"Where are you going?"

"Out," Rogers declared and stared at him. "I'm not a prisoner. Fury told me I wasn't a prisoner. Am I?"

"Uh, um, no, uh, no, sir," the fake janitor stammered staring at him.

John moved up behind him and took the Glock off his waistband. "I need to borrow this."

"But… wait.. sir… you can't just take…" The SHIELD kid faltered into silence, eyes flickering between Rogers, whom he knew, and John, who was a stranger, but apparently dangerous enough to make him be quiet.

In any case, John wasn't listening. "I already did. I might need it." He checked the clip automatically and then put it back in his waistband. At the door he turned to glance over his shoulder to see the agent was talking urgently to himself or to some phone or earbud, by his mannerisms he was reporting that Rogers was on the loose.

On the steps outside, Rogers asked, "Did you really need the gun?"

"I don't know. But I'd rather have it in case I do."

"I can take care of myself."

"I'm sure. Though you should know you're not the only target. I have some friends, who aren't going to be very happy with me, if I'm spotted."

"Friends?" Steve asked, doubtfully, lifting a brow. "They're going to shoot at you? Why?"

"I left."

Steve frowned. "The military?"

"I joined the CIA after the military. They now know I'm alive, and let's just say they like to keep their former assets very quiet."

Rogers looked disturbed, casting glances at John as they walked, and shoved his hands in his pockets. "This is a government agency approving of your murder?"

"The same agency told me to kill other people, Captain. To protect American interests. Men, women, children…" He paused, throat dry, remembering the dark eyes of the boy in the house. … _All of them, John. No witnesses. No survivors. No matter who is there. All of them_…

He had to clear his throat. "I don't know the government was really _better_ back then, but you should know it's certainly not better now. I have blood on my hands, Captain Rogers, and the government has more because they wouldn't let me leave when I balked at the evil they wanted of me. I'm not sure that SHIELD doesn't want the same. Hiring assassins, even reformed ones, as spies strikes me as somewhat … dubious."

"Why are you telling me this?" Steve asked.

"Because you should know. SHIELD claims they're benign, but so did the Agency, even when I was sent to torture and kill. And not all those people were guilty of anything but being in the wrong place at the wrong time. You're… good. You don't have the same stain on you."

"But you don't have any proof they're not benign."

"No one with power and money is ever completely benign. Or without their own agenda. I've been on a leash most of my life and it's always turned… corrupt. I'm hoping Fury and SHIELD are different, but… they hired me. How benign can they be?"

Rogers seemed troubled as he nodded thoughtfully. Then he sighed. "I'd hoped things would be better in the future. Less hate, less violence…"

"Well, that depends on your measurement, I suppose. There's more freedom in the world. Wars are smaller. But there are always bad apples, and power always corrupts. That's never going to change."

"That's a cynical view of human nature."

"You don't tend to see the good parts in the places I've been." But that wasn't true, not really. He had seen goodness in some of those places, and it was that goodness that continually reminded him what he was supposed to be doing all of it _for_. For the bodega owner who let him move boxes for him to put a few bucks in his pocket, even knowing John was going to drink it all away, because John had once stopped an attempted robbery. For the deli waitress who gave him sandwiches because she knew he was a veteran and because her husband had shot himself after Vietnam. For the farmers who had nursed the tall stranger shot and abandoned by his own people and who had smuggled him out of the country and away from the people hunting him. That was who - not the faceless warlords who sent him to kill.

Not that he had a problem killing other faceless warlords and their punch-clock minions who had the ethics of hungry sharks. He was just tired of killing the innocent to protect the predators.

After mulling it over for awhile as they ambled along the sidewalk, Rogers said, "You don't think I should be with SHIELD."

"I'm just saying, keep your eyes open. Don't swallow what you're told. You have the moral authority to do the right thing, in a way I never have. So use it."

"You say that, and yet, here you're telling me about it. I don't think your soul can be all that damned."

John shrugged and shook his head. "Damned long ago, Captain. And I've come back too late."

_Too late. Too late for Jessica. Too late for so many others who didn't have to die. Too late for those who deserved to die but who was I to make that choice_?

"You really think there's no such thing as redemption?" Rogers asked. "I don't believe that."

"For some, maybe. The rest of us, best we can do is try to remember there's a line at all." His mouth made a sad rueful grimace. "I dishonored the Ranger creed a long time ago."

Rogers looked at him as if he wanted to disagree, but kept quiet. At the next intersection, he glanced up at the signs and realized where they were. "I remember this corner. The kids sold papers here and there was a cleaners and a butcher, and a … a shoemaker, I think he was. Hm, I don't remember. Shoes or leather goods in general, maybe. Hats next door. But the building there on the corner was the same."

Steve stood there and looked at it for a moment, his mind far away. "One of the guys I hated lived in the building next door. He used to beat me up and steal my pennies." He chuckled a little. "Back when a penny would actually buy you something. I look at the prices of things today and I choke."

"I find it hard to believe anyone would beat you up," John observed.

"Oh, they did. All the time before the serum."

John was scanning the street, as he always did. There were two sketchy guys on the curb, across the street, and even though they saw the two men, one of them pulled a gun in plain view. Robbery or shakedown probably and a great deal of overconfidence in his intimidation skills.

John hadn't quite decided to intervene, until the two thugs went into Lema's grocery. Mister Lema had once given him a quart of milk, and John didn't forget kindness.

Without a word to Rogers, he darted across the street. Cars honked at him but John barely noticed, enough to go around them and vault the back of the trunk of one that was slow.

"John!" Rogers exclaimed behind him.

John didn't reach for his gun, not yet, as he entered the open door of the store. The two thugs were at the check out counter, where Mister Lema's son Danny was standing. Danny's eyes were alarmed and concerned, to see this stranger enter.

John smiled a little and kept moving toward them. "Hey fellas. Nice day, isn't it?"

"The store's closed," one of them ordered him harshly, but he had pulled the gun, so it no longer aimed directly at Danny. Amateur.

"I'm just here for apples. I won't take long." John grabbed two apples as he passed the produce display. They were small and firm, probably tasty too, but right now he had a better use for them.

"Stop, man. Or I'll shoot." Now the one with the gun turned it in John's general direction, which was all he was waiting for. He kept approaching and smarter criminals would've known he wasn't impressed because he outclassed them, not because he was a fool. But being fools themselves, they figured he was one, too.

"No, you won't."

"What do you mean? I will. You need to get out of here. This ain't none of your business."

"Well, actually, you're roughing up the son of a friend of mine, so that makes it my business. It's you who needs to get out of here, or I'm going to get real unfriendly."

"Mister, don't-" Danny protested, and it was the perfect distraction. The gun-toting dick on legs glanced at Danny, and John threw both apples. The first hit the gun, knocked it off target, while the second took the other in the face like a baseball. He lurched backward with a shout.

John was already moving against them. He could feel Natasha's training adding to his usual moves as he grabbed the gun hand and slammed that elbow against the counter, so the gun sprang free and fell to the countertop as his fingers went numb. Elbow back and into his throat, then grabbing him and holding him in front, as the other one tried to hit him and struck his friend instead. Tangling them together, so they knocked over the small display stand of chips and gum on the counter. Another hand to the solar-plexus to drive the air out of his lungs, and a hard strike to the back of his neck so he dropped like a stone. Then John grabbed the gun and put it against the other's head as he held it against the counter. "You didn't come here on your own. Tell me who your boss is, and I'll let you walk out of here."

The guy whined and started to say something stupid and full of bravado, until John seized his hand and yanked at his thumb in the wrong direction, until he let out a cry, "Okay, okay. Caparelli."

Which was not surprising for this neighborhood, so John leaned down and told him, "Listen to me very carefully. The Lema family is off-limits. If you or any of your friends fuck with them again, I will find you and I will kill you." He said it flatly, a statement of fact, because he meant it. He didn't need a big production of it, only to be believed, and given the guy was quivering with fear, John was pretty sure he'd be believed. "Now take your friend and get out."

He released him and stepped back, gun at the ready as he watched.

Rogers was at the door, watching it all curiously. "You letting them go? Shouldn't we call the police?"

"I keep a promise," John said. "And they need to deliver a message. Right, boys?"

They didn't answer, though one sort of grunted, and neither met his eyes as they stumbled out. Rogers stood aside and watched them go, frowning.

"Thank you," Danny said to him. His hands were shaking as he tried to right the display. Reflexively, John helped him by gathering up all the little chip bags and gum packs that had spilled on the counter and floor. Rogers came forward to help pick things up as well.

"No need to thank me. Your father helped me out once, I was repaying that," John said.

Danny nodded and swallowed hard. "They come in for money once a month. I don't know if they'll stop."

John acknowledged they probably wouldn't. These men might believe him, but the boss was going to test it unless he was warned personally. But that was for later, in the evening, when he'd have some more room to maneuver without Rogers around. "If anyone bothers you again, leave a couple apples on your fire escape, and I'll take care of it."

Danny seemed worried. "These are bad men."

"I've dealt with worse, Danny."

Danny took him at his word, seeming relieved, which firmed up John's resolve to do something about it. This harassment and threats had been going on for awhile. "How do you know my name?" Danny asked curiously.

"I've been around the neighborhood."

Danny paused and then asked, "That looked like eskrima? You were fast, like one of Papa's old movies."

"I trained a variety of styles, including that," John confirmed. "You ever think about learning?"

Danny shook his head. "No, never had time for that old country stuff. Maybe I should have."

"You still can. Good to defend yourself though it's not for everyone." He picked up his two weaponized apples and held them up. "They're a bit bruised now. Can I have them?"

Danny smiled. "Sure. With our thanks."

John tossed one to Rogers as they left. He made sure to take both guns tucked in his waistband, safeties on.

"So, you rescue shopkeepers from protection rackets?" Rogers asked when they were out on the sidewalk again. "Is that why you wanted to walk?"

John shrugged. "No, that was a bonus." He scanned the street - no police but that woman in the jogging outfit taking a breather on the opposite side was almost certainly SHIELD, there to tail them. He wanted to lose her on general principles, especially since she'd witnessed his intervention and was probably calling it in right now on the phone in her hands. He bit into his apple and turned away before he was tempted to wave at her, which would earn him a switch of tails and the next one might be less easy to pick out.

"Why didn't you want to call the police?" Rogers asked. "You know those creeps may stop knocking this place over, but they're doing it to others."

"I don't want to be a witness." He especially didn't want his file connected to the Lemas officially or leave too much of a paper trail about his whereabouts. Though he had inadvertently confirmed to SHIELD that he could still fight and even that Natasha had been right - he was still a sucker to try to help.

He wanted to sigh, knowing how that instinct was always exploited by his handlers, but hopefully not this time. But in any case it didn't really matter since he'd do it again, and slamming that asshole's head to the counter had been the most alive he'd felt in a long time, with the adrenaline push and the delight in punishing the guilty and getting to use his talents on behalf of the innocent.

That, if he were honest with himself, was why he had little interest in letting law enforcement take it away from him. It wasn't as satisfying, and given he was not likely to die in his bed of old age, he might as well get the most out of what he had.

"And if they come after that shopkeeper again? Are you really going to kill them, like you said?" Rogers asked, his voice heavy with disapproval.

"Did you believe me?" John retorted.

After a moment, Rogers nodded. "I did."

"So did they." Which implied a lie, but Rogers believed it, nodding in relief.

"You're not as bad as you think you are," Rogers said eventually.

John decided he might as well let Rogers think that. He'd have to evaluate once he talked to Caparelli. The boss might be intimidated into leaving them alone, or if he was especially terrible, John might have to take him out. It wouldn't be the first time he'd undertaken what his bosses had euphemistically referred to as 'regime change' or taken out certain crime bosses. When he hadn't been working for those crime bosses, at least. But it was an independent project, nothing to do with SHIELD, and now that he'd given his word, he had to make sure he followed through. Because if he didn't, it was likely that Danny would be the one at the bottom of the Hudson and his blood on John's hands, even if he brought his killers to justice after the fact.

It was liberating, though, to realize that he was doing this on his own. No mission orders, no handlers - just himself, his skills, and his choices.

* * *

tbc...


	6. Chapter 6

It was after eleven when John came back down the stairs in his hotel, gun at his back beneath his suit jacket, and decided to go to the bar on 51st where Caparelli's men drank.

The air was a little too cold to be comfortable without a coat, but it was nothing he couldn't put out of his thoughts as he emerged from the hotel. He turned the opposite direction from Rogers' apartment, to try to avoid any SHIELD surveillance on Rogers.

In the next half-block, a figure detached itself from a dark window alcove and John had a hand on his gun before a familiar voice said, "I thought you might go this way."

A tall, leather-jacket clad form came into the light from the streetlamp at the corner and he was looking right at John, as if he'd been expecting John the whole time. Damn, he hadn't bought it. Stomach tight, John went to meet him. "Nice night for a stroll," John said.

"I knew you were going to go out."

"Going to the bar."

"Really? I'll go with you," Rogers bounded next to him and gave him a smile, but his face was intent and he seemed to know exactly what was really happening.

"I don't need your tail tailing me." Nor, in fact, did he need Rogers hanging around, but that seemed inevitable at the moment.

"I went out the window, up the side, across to the next building and down the back," Steve said. "No one tailed me."

"Nice." It was a good use of his skills. John favored a frontal assault because it was brazen enough it often worked, but in his career, there had been times he'd come in through the basement or the roof. Certainly in the city he should make better use of the rest of the building.

"So what's the plan?" Rogers walked beside him, hands tucked in his jacket pockets.

"I find out where Caparelli is."

"And they're just going to tell you?"

"I expect them to resist at first, then they tell me. That's how it usually goes."

"Then it's a good thing I'm along. Keep you from getting carried away," Rogers said with a smile and a stare that warned of lines John shouldn't cross.

It was annoying. John eyed Rogers and said, "I don't know about this. If you get hurt, I'm probably fired. This is… personal."

"I don't like bullies either, you know," Rogers pointed out. "And some action would be welcome. I've been cooped up in that apartment or the training room in the basement since they let me leave the hospital." His smile widened. "I won't cramp your style too much, I promise."

"All right. Since you won't leave anyway."

Rogers laughed at his grumpy irritation and clapped him on the shoulder. "C'mon. You said you'd show me the city."

John showed him the interior of McKinnnons, first. John scanned the crowd as soon as he stepped inside - mostly half-drunk workers, a few people on dates, and two bartenders. None of them were the people he wanted. Then his eyes lit on the two men at the end of the bar - they were young, wearing expensive leather jackets, one had a prison gang tat on the back of his neck, and the other shoved a drunk who smashed into him on the way to the restroom, showing off that he was packing a Glock.

"Those two at the end," John murmured to Steve. "Keep them from leaving."

Please let them do the sideways gun draw, that's always funny, John thought as he walked toward the pair. Rogers bracketed them on the other side while John maneuvered around and leaned up against the end of the bar. "Hey fellas."

"Get lost," the nearer one snarled.

"Just looking for information," John said mildly. "You two know Caparelli? Work for him?" They both reacted perfectly. "Ah, you know him. You know where I might find him?"

"We don't know nothing. Piss off." Half-drunk and hostile already.

"You a cop?" The other one asked, a little more reasonably, looking at John in his suit. Not drunk, but not too bright either. Caparelli needed better help.

"Nope," John answered. "Not a cop at all. I just want a chat with him. Where is he tonight?"

The less drunk one frowned at him. "You with Moretti?"

"No. I have a business idea," John said. "I want Caparelli's backing for it."

"Oh, all right then. Delmonicos. He's there tonight, far as we know."

His friend nearly shoved him off the stool. "Joey, you asshole, why'd you go and say something? Boss said we don't tell nobody."

"Dude wants to talk. No harm, no foul," Joey shrugged.

"Thank you, gentlemen. Good night." John was tempted to provoke a fight to take their weapons, but decided quietly slipping out was better. And less likely to prompt one of them to call Caparelli and warn him.

"Look at that, you didn't even have to hit them," Rogers observed dryly, when they were on the sidewalk. "But a 'business idea'? What, your idea is he stop running a protection racket?"

"It's going to be bad business for him if he doesn't stop."

He felt Rogers' look. "Most guys, that's empty bravado for show. It's not with you. You mean it. You'll take down a mob boss if you want to. That's… impressive."

John shook his head. "You fought Red Skull, that's impressive. I fight local thugs."

Rogers might have wanted to argue the point but decided to drop it. "Sometimes it amazes me how little things have changed. Like Delmonico's. That place was a mob hangout when I was a kid - is it still in on 49th?"

John nodded, and they set off at a good clip to the restaurant. They ran into a snag when they found the restaurant was closed, and its outside lights were off. Inside the lights were still on, which suggested Joey was right, and Caparelli was inside, doing business.

"Looks almost the same," Steve murmured, gazing at the façade. "Strange. I think I like it better when things are different, like the skyscrapers, not things like this that linger but aren't right."

"It's not nice to see something familiar?"

"I guess. But it's distorted. The glass used to be smoky and the door was solid, and the lights were different." Rogers shook himself. "How do you want to play this?" He went up to the large window and peeked inside above the little curtains that hung across the lower half of the window. "One guy cleaning the floor. Lights on, some movement in the back area. We could go in the back. Or split up."

"You go in the back. I'll wait two minutes." He offered his backup weapon, and Steve took it, demonstrating he could use it as he checked the safety, even if he didn't look all that happy about it.

John waited until Steve had hurried around the corner and then he tried the door. It was open so he walked in.

The young man glanced at him. "We're closed."

"Business." John nodded toward the back and kept walking. The cleaner left his mop leaning against the table and approached him.

"You got an appointment?"

John reached out, grabbed his wrist to yank him closer, kneed him in the nuts, turned him so the wrist he had was now up the guy's back, and stomped the back of his knee so the guy was gasping in pain and trying to collapse but the grip on his wrist prevented him. "No, I don't."

He dropped the guy and kept walking toward the large archway that divided the seating area from the back. More guards came out then hearing the small commotion.

"I'm here to talk to Mister Caparelli." John raised both hands, empty, and kept walking. "Just to talk."

They put hands on their weapons but didn't draw, as they moved shoulder to shoulder to block the doorway. Idiots, that just put them closer together.

"I asked politely," John said. He glanced past them into an alcove area with a large booth, seeing that not only was Caparelli there, with an older man who was likely some sort of money guy, and two other low level enforcers. Caparelli wasn't much older than John, with a full head of slicked dark hair and a bit of a jowl line, but still pretty fit looking for a man who spent his days eating Italian and ordering people's deaths. He wasn't paying attention to the commotion at the door.

"Mister Caparelli is busy," one of the muscle guys sneered. "Make an appointment."

"Okay," John said and started to turn, as if he was going to walk away. That put the near one straight in the path of his backhand block to his face, jab to the throat, two punches, and one strike to make the quicker one drop his gun. Then he had his own gun in hand from under his jacket, as the rest of the room finally woke up.

The two minions started to draw, and even the old man was protecting Caparelli, by standing half in front of him. But John made them all freeze by targeting Caparelli in the head. "Nobody be stupid," John warned. "I only want to talk."

"Your talking needs work." Caparelli glared.

"I did ask first." John kicked the gun on the floor out of reach of anybody who might want it, and moved forward two paces.

"Who are you?" Caparelli demanded. "Who sent you?"

"Not important," John dismissed. "What's important is what I want: you stop running protection rackets in Hell's Kitchen."

"And why should I do that?" Caparelli demanded. "So someone else moves in? Like Moretti? Like that boss building power in the Russian quarter? I'm not giving up my territory. And not for some two-bit thug in a cheap suit comes to threaten me for some boss he won't say."

John filed all that away for later investigation, but smiled a bit at the "two-bit thug in a cheap suit" crack. Maybe tomorrow he could show Steve the inside of Macy's and get a suit that didn't come out of a thrift store. "I don't work for anyone, Caparelli. I'm here for my friends who own shops in Hell's Kitchen, and I want it to stop."

Caparelli smiled. "Ah, a do gooder. Well, that isn't how it works, Mister…?"

John ignored the invitation to provide his name. "That is exactly how it works. You end it, or I end you."

"You stupid?" Caparelli demanded. "You're threatening me? In my own place? Go against me and you will lose, and I'll destroy you and your family and everyone you know."

There was some hollow thumping noises coming up behind him - Rogers had arrived through the back. Which was good for the backup; though not good because it closed his window of getting rid of Caparelli.

"All I want is an end to the protection racket. It's pennies for you," John warned him in a low voice. "But if you don't, I will burn your organization to the ground."

"You and what army, do-gooder?" Caparelli asked with a sneer.

Just then Rogers came around the wall, holding two men by their jackets, limply dangling above the ground in each hand. "I know a cue when I hear it." He let the two drop and shot a look at John. "That wasn't two minutes."

"Sorry. I got bored." John gave a little shrug, weapon not wavering from Caparelli. "Make a choice, Caparelli."

"Do I really have one?" Caparelli asked. "At gunpoint?"

"Same choice you give your victims."

Caparelli glanced at the older man and then back to John, with a grimace and spat, "Fine. Done. I withdraw my protection. But you should know, do-gooder, that won't stop anyone else from doing it."

John gave a little smile. "Actually you're going to stop them, too. Or I'll still take it out on you." Caparelli looked appalled by this turnaround and opened his mouth to complain, but John interrupted, "We'll see ourselves out."

He began to back out of the room. One of the guys he'd put down started to get up and Rogers backhanded him to the floor, clearing the way to the front door as John watched their backs.

Outside, John put his gun back in his waistband and they started back, making a circuitous path so they could see if they were followed. "You think he's really gonna do it?" Rogers asked.

"We'll see. I hope so." He did, too.

On the way back, they passed the Lema's store, closed and shuttered, and John cast an eye up at the fire escape, curious when he saw something small and pale on the railing. It was an apple: not the two he had said to ask for help, but definitely one, and up close he saw there was something with it, too. "Huh, what did he leave?"

Rogers leaped up, catching the low edge of the floor and swung himself up and over the rail. He first threw down the apple, which John caught. Then Rogers jumped down, carrying something he handed to John, with a note rubber-banded to them which read: _My father said these are for you. Thank you for trying to help us._

They were a pair of eskrima sticks - each was about two feet long, made of polished ebony with the grip roughened by an ornate scroll pattern.

"Those are beautiful weapons," Rogers observed. "I don't know how they're used, but they have a good feel in the hand."

John twirled them once in each hand, and they did feel nice in his hands - more defensive than a gun, less lethal, but still intimidating in the right context.

"I don't know how much good they'd do against firearms though," Rogers continued.

"This from someone who threw a big plate for a primary weapon?" John asked dryly, glancing at him.

Rogers gave a little laugh of rueful acknowledgment but protested, "It was a shield, and it was bulletproof. So that helped."

"It was bulletproof? I always thought that was exaggerated." John tucked the sticks under his jacket. It was clumsy and obvious - he'd need a better way to carry them on the street. Cops tended to notice and disapprove of obvious weapons, even sticks.

He smiled to himself, wondering what Natasha would think of his new acquisition.

Dropping Steve at his building, much to the chagrin of the watcher in the lobby, John went on to the corner shop, his feet bringing him inside automatically to the counter. The clerk yawned. "Yeah, buddy? What'cha want?"

John's eyes roamed the wall full of liquor bottles. Now that he had money it seemed like infinite choice, and being unable to choose, he realized he shouldn't be choosing at all.

Dreams. He could dream, or he could get drunk enough not to dream.

"Mister?" the clerk prompted. "You okay?"

The unexpected concern in the stranger's voice snapped John out of it. Instead of the Stoli he really wanted, he grabbed a jar of peanuts and bottle of ginger ale and returned to his room at the hotel. He watched the television until his eyes were gritty and the reruns became infomercials. He kept his gun on the bedside table and the batons tucked between the mattress and the headboard, and eventually he fell into restless dreams about Caparelli's endless thugs gunning down the Lemas, who turned into the other people he knew, while Natasha watched it all with a cold, disapproving look that he wasn't doing anything to stop it.

* * *

tbc...


	7. Chapter 7

John's phone woke him in the morning with an insistent buzzing. He fumbled for the phone, grunting for his hello.

"_Your asset has left the building_." Coulson's voice was dry, reporting it to him without greeting.

John glanced at the clock. It was barely after six a.m. "Do you have a problem with good morning, Agent Coulson?"

"_You're supposed to be babysitting him. Oh, and by the way, babysitting him doesn't include threatening mob bosses_."

John lifted his phone away from his ear and looked at the screen, wondering if they had been listening in and that was how Coulson knew. It made him irritated, to be spied on, but he returned dryly, "You wanted me to help him get adjusted. I did."

Coulson hesitated and there was another pause for a sigh. "_Were you this much trouble with the Agency_?"

"They do want me dead," John reminded him, amused.

Coulson grumbled as if he wasn't sure he disagreed with that decision, then said, "_Fine. You want more action. How about a different mob boss? Noon. Be ready on the roof of Rogers' building for extraction. In the meantime, find your asset_."

John was still looking at the screen so he wasn't surprised when the line went dead.

It wasn't hard to find Rogers. He was in the café down the street, as a cursory examination of the SHIELD personnel lingering on the street immediately showed. So Coulson knew exactly where Rogers was, and pretending he didn't felt as if he was jerking John's chain.

John's hand tightened around the phone and for a second, he was highly tempted to throw it in the trash and keep walking.

Instead he continued to the café, and inside to Rogers, who glanced up from the table and his coffee and smiled at John. "Good morning." He seemed genuinely pleased to see John, and that let the ice thaw a little as John took the bench across from him.

"You escaped I see," he murmured and refused the menu the waitress offered, ordering toast and coffee.

Rogers chuckled. "Except for all the watchers. They act like I'm going to go crazy and attack people."

"No, they act like you're an expensive asset with a mind of its own."

Rogers agreed with wry amusement. "Like I have anywhere else to go." His humor died away as he sipped his coffee. "I know it'll take time," he said heavily. "I know I'll adjust eventually, but I - it's all different. My folks are dead, all the people I knew - they're gone. The city's so changed… "

John nodded. After a moment, he said, "Stranger in a strange land. I didn't travel in time, but I don't have anywhere to go back to. Anyone who knew that name, I'm dead. No family, no past. Just the work."

Rogers pondered that a moment as he pushed the sugar to John, as the waitress poured John's coffee. When she was gone, he asked, "And friends?"

John's first instinct was to say, no friends. But that was the Agency talking, with its betrayals and its secrecy, and its deliberate disconnection from anything human for its darkest operatives. So he nodded and smiled a bit. "And friends."

Friends. He and Natasha. Were they friends? And he and Steve Rogers, were they friends? Was this being friends? He had no idea. Comrades in arms, at least, he knew how to do that.

"I'm being recalled at noon. New mission," John said. "Someone heard about our little op last night, and now I get to go take down a different boss."

Rogers seemed disappointed by that, making a face. "Oh, well, I'm sure you're glad to get out of babysitting duty."

"It had its moments," John reassured him. "But it's still early. You want to do anything this morning?"

"Let's go running," Rogers decided. "In the park. I haven't been there yet."

Thanks to the magic of SHIELD eavesdropping, there were sets of clothes to run in when they'd got back to Rogers' apartment.

They ran on the paths at a pace a bit more than a jog, steady and ground-eating that John could do with a pack if he had to. He noticed they - or really Rogers - got some appreciative looks as they passed, and John backed off a bit to stay less noticed. Or he would have, except Rogers kept waiting for him.

John felt still out of shape, but Rogers slapped him on the back, when he stopped, panting and sweating. "You can keep up. C'mon, soldier, let's pick up the pace."

John groaned, but stayed with him, very glad he'd been training with Natasha and Clint.

After a shower and dressed back in his suit, he returned to Rogers' place and handed him the sticks. "Here, can you keep these for me? And check on the Lemas; let me know if they're in trouble so I can help."

"Sure, no problem." He shook John's hand. "I'm glad you're my babysitter," Rogers joked. "Come back next time mom and dad are out at the movies."

"Will do. Take care of yourself, Captain."

"Steve." Rogers corrected. "And you do the same, John."

Up on the roof, John waited for the helicopter, then had to smile when it didn't actually land, just let down a ladder.

It was less fun than he remembered it being in Ranger training, dangling from a ladder above the city with the blast of rotors in his face, but he managed to climb as the ropes were swinging. At the top, he found a hand belonging to Barton helping him inside. "Welcome aboard, New Guy. We're off to briefing. Nat will meet us," Barton shouted above the noise and John nodded.

* * *

Back on the Helicarrier, somewhere in the Atlantic, he and Barton ducked beneath the helicopter rotors and headed for the hatch.

"So, Captain America?" Barton asked in the quieter corridor inside. "How was that?"

"He kind of squeaks with goodness," John admitted, and Barton lets out a gruff chuckle of amusement. "But I think he's adjusting. What's the new mission?"

But Barton didn't know and they headed into the briefing room. Natasha and Coulson were already waiting, and she smiled a greeting at them. "So, John, I heard you and Captain Rogers went after a mob boss last night?"

He took the seat beside her. "For a secret agency, this place is a terrible gossip mill," he said, not answering, but her smile widened, and he couldn't help a smile back.

"Agent Barton, Reese," Coulson greeted. "We'll get to business. For the past few days, Agent Romanoff has been in place in Miami, working her way into this man's orbit." A hologram appeared of a man in an expensive suit, on the deck of a yacht. He had the thick dark hair and wide eyes of someone with Eurasian ancestry, and was pretty good looking, John thought; pity he was apparently a bad guy.

"This is Shinobi Shaw, heir to Shaw Industries since he was born, grandson of Sebastian Shaw, late unlamented sociopath and Nazi war criminal who very nearly brought about nuclear war forty years ago," Coulson introduced. "Shaw the younger has been content to spend the money and live the lifestyle until recently, when his accounts started to get overdrawn. Naturally, instead of deciding to live more modestly, he decided to start dealing in heroin and weapons. We'd normally leave to our friends in other agencies, but he's moving up the chain so rapidly, he must have bigger backers, which latest intel includes Ten Rings."

John grimaced. His unit had gone after a cell of Ten Rings to paint it for elimination, but it had all gone fubar. They'd been spotted and two of his had gotten killed, though they had managed to call an airstrike. "So he thinks he's a big fish but the big fish will hang him out to dry at the least sign of trouble."

Coulson nodded. "Probably. But if he has intel on Ten Rings or any of his other big time friends, we need it. We found out he's hosting a party at his compound in Miami tomorrow night - Agent Romanoff already procured an invitation, and I want the two of you to go in with her."

"Clint on the outside," Natasha suggested. "John as my date. Or bodyguard. Security will be heavy."

John glanced at Barton, expecting him to complain about the assignment but Barton shrugged. "Rather be lookout." Then he flashed a smile. "Put my better sniper skills to work at a distance."

"That's not tested," John answered as he looked at the map of the estate on the display. "We should come in by boat," he suggested. "Most security will be set up to deal with arrivals by car. But he's got a dock." He set his finger on the spot in the image where there was a small dock on the inlet of the expensive neighborhood.

Coulson nodded approval. "We'll borrow a yacht." He typed something on his pad, and then some other specs came up on the screens that were in front of each of them. "Security plan. Cameras. Window sensors. Some expensive art he's also guarding, looks like. Detached garage and building for the help."

"Employees?"

"Three on staff in the house, housekeeper, cook, and driver. Some hired guns for bodyguards and security. Those will be beefed up with outsiders, though. If we'd had a little more time we could've got one of you in with them. Also there'll be catering, flowers, music."

"So, lots of strangers, besides the guests," Natasha observed. John nodded, that was always a lot easier when there were people wandering around.

"Also means he'll lock down anything important. Computer?"

"Agent Romanoff will carry the thumb drive with the worm. All she needs is access to a computer on his network. That'll dump the contents to our receiver," Coulson explained.

They laid their plans and memorized the intel. Then Barton brought him to the armory. There wasn't much point in taking too much, John thought; he'd almost certainly be frisked and the primary weapon taken. So he checked out a Desert Eagle for size and flashiness, making Barton snicker as he loaded his quiver. "Really?"

"They're going to take it. Might as well give them something to find."

Then he took his more usual, smaller Glock, and a carbon fiber M9 for more useful weapons. A quick look found a forearm sheath for it which would fit under his suit jacket.

Trying to find a holster to fit the bigger pistol reminded him of his cheap suit problem. John found Coulson. "I need to get better clothes before I do this."

"You have to go shopping?" Coulson asked in disbelief.

"Miami will do. Natasha can go with me. For cover."

"Mission account isn't paying for thousand dollar suits," Coulson declared, folding his arms and looking suspicious that SHIELD was going to end up paying for it anyway. John smiled a little.

"It doesn't have to."

"You have funds?" Coulson was surprised, no doubt wondering why John had been on the streets of New York if he had access to money enough for nice suits. But that account was known to the Agency, so he couldn't touch it without confirming he was alive. Nor had he really cared to use it. It had never been a lack of funds, only a lack of will.

"Bad guys can be surprisingly generous. I just need to get to it."

In Miami, Natasha was willing to play the part of bored Russian heiress, while he drew funds out of a branch of Royal Cayman bank, then she went shopping like the fate of the planet was at stake. He played bodyguard and bag carrier as she bought dresses and shoes and makeup. Then she started picking up the lacy underthings with a mischievous gleam in her eyes, to see if he would squirm. He mostly watched around her as he should, but when she held up a bra and asked what he thought, he couldn't help staring. It started to get a little warm, imagining her wearing that.

She was wearing little enough as it was, a strappy sun dress with heels that made her legs look impossibly long.

_No. no, I don't need this_, he reminded himself sharply. Mind on the job.

But his reactions betrayed him, and she laughed at him on the way out. "Ah, poor John," she teased, whispering in his ear. "Was the store air conditioning not working well enough? What happened to my icy super spy?"

"I have to get my entertainment somewhere, when you're spending my money."

"Yours? You skimmed all of it from drug lords and terrorists."

He shrugged. "They didn't need it anymore." Their eyes met, amused, but amusement faded quickly as they kept looking at each other, caught. She turned away.

"Now we need find something for you," she said, adopting a stronger Russian accent, tucking a hand briefly around his arm, knowing better than to tie up his gun hand too long. Even if it was tied up with packages.

"I can't believe this was my idea," he complained.

She laughed, a throaty chuckle, and her hair caught the light streaming through the skylights, gleaming like fire. For a moment he marveled at the sight, that he was lucky enough to see something so beautiful.

In the men's store, she took a firm hand with both him and store clerk to find him just the right suit. After the fourth reject, he was sure she was having fun at his expense, but he went along, enjoying her amusement if not the actual shopping part.

Finally she found one she seemed to like and dismissed the clerk with the wave of her hand. "Very handsome," she said, giving him an assessing look head to toe. Then she cozied up to him, while he held still, and he wished she wasn't quite so good at her job as she brushed a firm hand down his lapel. "Is that a gun in your pocket or are you happy to see me?" she purred.

"Can't I pick both?" he murmured and leaned down. In her tall heels she was his height, and she let him get close enough to feel her breath on his lips, and then spun away.

"After the Shaw party," she declared.

He nearly missed a step, surprised by the answer, and he glanced at her to confirm what he'd heard, wondering if he was taking her too seriously. Her eyes met his, and he saw the same seed of feeling there, confused and uncertain, but growing.

"After," she said and it sounded like a promise.

* * *

John and Clint got ready in their main room of the hotel suite while Natasha readied herself in the adjoining bedroom.

Clint glanced at him as if he wanted to say something, but thought better of it. John didn't prompt him either, because he figured it was something to do with Natasha, but this was pre-mission and personal issues had no place here. John was relieved to see that Clint didn't seem angry - whatever his relationship was with Natasha it wasn't one that made him jealous.

He fastened his cufflinks, which were also lockpicks. Next, he checked the arm sheath for the knife and slid the handgun into place in the shoulder holster. The jacket felt sleek going on and settled well, except for the bump for the gun. In vain he tried to smooth it down then tried the Glock there - at least with that one, the jacket would lay properly.

Barton whistled. "Damn. Planning to audition to be the next Bond?"

"As long as I get the Aston-Martin." He looked at his reflection. No matter how often he'd had to do it for work, nice suits still felt like he was playing dress up. It wasn't natural to the orphan kid who'd entered the military to escape the life of living on the edge of nothing. A dress uniform he could accept, but these fancy clothes felt false.

There was grey in his hair now, a lot more than there'd been before China, that was for sure. But training and a little boost from Essex' experiments kept him fit and fast, and made it his duty to do something good with it. Even wearing the penguin suit.

Barton appeared at his shoulder. "You can take the boy out of the circus, but not the circus out of the boy," he murmured, looking at the reflection of the two of them in their finery. "You?"

"Circus? And I thought mad scientist foster home was weird."

"Amateurs. Illicit government training facility trumps both of you." A deliberate step of high heel on the tile between the two rooms and they turned to see Natasha enter. Her long hair was mostly loose on her bare shoulders, and the emerald gown was gathered in all the right places and cut and stretchy for ease of movement. She'd done something to her eyes to make them luminous and he could barely tear his eyes away from her lips.

Barton whistled. "You do clean up well, Nat."

She gave him a look. "So do you. When you put in a little more effort than that."

He gave back a crooked grin. "I'm just driving the boat. Plus I have my armor underneath."

But John couldn't find the teasing camaraderie and could barely find his voice. He wanted to tell her she looked beautiful, but he said instead, "We should go."

Natasha nodded, all business now. "Comms test first."

They put in their earbuds and tested the connections. Then Barton grabbed the gear case that included his bow and they headed to the dock where the sleek boat was waiting.

* * *

Shinobi Shaw's estate was an overgrown garden of exotic plants and low buildings set around several courtyards in Spanish villa style, as if he'd been born a century too late. There was a great deal of wrought ironwork around the windows and the patios, and large French doors open to the breeze.

They weren't the only ones to think of arrival by boat as there was another one already tied up at the dock, but as John had suspected, arrivals security was looser, consisting of two hired guards. One checked the invitation list on his phone while the other patted John down casually and took his pistol. "You'll have to leave this in the boat, sir."

John pretended he didn't see how the guard rolled his eyes at the gun. "Of course." John handed it to Clint, who took it between two fingers as if John had handed him a dead rat and he put it down hastily. John didn't smile, but he thought it was an amusing addition to the story they were telling the guards of the bodyguard without substance and the unarmed driver.

Not that it seemed to matter all that much, since the guards were sloppy. They didn't pat him down any further, not finding the knife because they didn't touch beyond his elbows and didn't pat Natasha at all, figuring there was nowhere she could put a weapon, with her dress leaving so little hiding place.

She ordered Barton in Russian to stay, adding about how they wouldn't be long and the party looked dull. He answered that he'd be ready and sat at the back, taking out his phone like any other bored chauffeur. Security promptly stopped paying him attention at all.

Meanwhile Natasha started toward the house and he followed behind her, checking that their intel matched the actual reality. There were many pretty people, workers, and cameras. There was also an electrified fence around the perimeter and wires on the windows for a house alarm, which couldn't possibly be turned on when there was this party going on.

He was close behind Natasha going inside the house. She smiled and greeted people as if she knew a few of them, working her way through the crowd. John recognized a few of them himself. That was the younger Calderon of the Oaxacan cartel, so Shinobi Shaw was definitely keeping bad company.

Natasha made some party chit-chat with some other female guests and when she tasted her drink, she wrinkled her nose and put it down as if the vodka was cheap. She also refused all the food offered her, even though John took every shrimp puff that came his way, as they both killed time.

"I see our host," Natasha murmured. "We should say hello."

They worked their way to where Shinobi Shaw was holding court. In person, he was a good-looking man with a much better suit than John's, and two women were hanging all over him.

"Natalya Romanova," Natasha introduced herself holding out her hand to be kissed. John kept an eye on those in earshot, wondering if anyone would recognize the name as that of Black Widow. It wasn't exactly unknown in certain circles, and someone might know it here. But no one seemed to pay any extra notice.

Shaw obliged with the hand kissing. "Such beauty. Welcome to my house."

"It is lovely and so … charming," she said.

"Allow me to give you the tour," he appropriated her hand into his arm smoothly, and handed her a champagne flute in the other.

As Natasha kept a somewhat simpering running commentary in his ear about what she was seeing with Shaw, John parted from her to wander the opposite way. He took a champagne flute from a passing waiter but didn't drink it. "Checking the east hall," he reported in a murmur.

Two guards were posted in the hall, and he went up to them to check out what they were guarding. There was a closed door behind them. He asked for the restroom and got turned around to go back the other way. "Two guards on the third door on the north side, I'm going around outside to the window," he murmured for the benefit of his two listeners.

Returning to the patio, he slipped off into the garden. A soft step of someone being stealthy interrupted and John waited, fairly sure who it was but ready in case it wasn't. Clint stepped out, now in his work outfit, and handed John his Glock.

They moved carefully through the garden working their way to the office window away from the party guests. John pulled out the 'pen' from his breast pocket and flipped it to make a tiny periscope and peek in the window.

"Definitely his office," he murmured. "Empty. Door's shut, we're clear."

"Moving in," Clint added. "Taking the window. John, stand back."

He got out of the way, as Clint put a special tip on his arrow, before shooting it at the window. It flew silently and impacted the window with a soft thwack, spreading some sort of sticky filaments across the surface. Clint ran up and pulled on the arrow, and the window came out as a weird soft goo, as if it had melted slightly.

"Nice," John said in appreciation. "I need some of that." Then, careful of the suit on possible sharp edges, he lifted himself into the office. Clint followed. "We're in."

"_Is that an actual Renoir_?" Natasha breathed in false awe in his ear.

"_It is_," Shaw confirmed, loudly enough for her microphone to pick up. "_My grandfather acquired it_."

John felt a little sick, sure how his family had obtained it, since his grandfather had been a Nazi war criminal.

He opened the lid of the laptop while Clint stayed back to keep an eye on the outside and the door to the office.

The laptop woke up but was password protected. John poked at it a little, trying some of the more obvious passwords, without success. Then Clint murmured, "John, that bookshelf. It's a door. The floor's worn where it opens."

John turned and had to squint, but after a moment, saw what Clint was seeing. He murmured for Natasha's benefit, "There's a secret room off the office." It had to be small, though- he'd seen the floorplan and the window of the room next door made a space that couldn't be more than seven feet wide.

He looked for the latch. On closer inspection, the bookshelf was full of fake books and fake knick-knacks, which made it easy to find the latch because only the latch was touched. A section of the bookshelf popped out like a door and he pulled it, as Natasha was very grateful to Shaw for showing her around and then fended off his unsubtle attempt to get her to sleep with him later.

Then, in a murmur meant for her listeners, she said with a relieved breath, "_Thank god. He's insufferable. Heading to you_."

Behind the door was not a room. John grimaced at the unpleasant surprise. "It's an elevator. It has to go down."

"Shit," Barton muttered, "There could be an entire level we know nothing about."

"_Almost there_," Natasha said. "_Two guards_."

"Got them." John moved to the door and opened it, getting the guards' attention. "Hi there. Is this the bathroom?"

Natasha took them down from behind with two quick hits and she and John dragged them into the office. Barton locked the door behind them. Fishing the USB drive out from her cleavage, she handed it to Clint. "You do the worm. We're going down below."

John stripped the guns and extra clips off the downed guards and slammed the elevator call button. They were on a clock now, lasting however long it would take security to realize those two guards weren't at the door. It could be only minutes, but they needed at least to look at what Shaw had in his secret basement.

The small elevator had only two buttons, up and down, and he pushed down as Natasha joined him. He handed her a gun, then glanced at the camera. "Take it?" She nodded, so he reached up and slammed the lens with the butt of his weapon.

The doors opened and they were ready, aiming weapons, as banks of overhead fluorescents came on automatically. There was no one there.

It looked to be a large storage space running under about half the main house, broken by supports, with unfinished look to it with exposed conduits and plumbing for above. But it was the boxes that got his attention - dozens of crates marked with the Ten Rings symbol.

With Natasha watching his back, he pried one open. Nestled in foam were small cylinders marked with death symbols. "Poison gas."

She took her turn ripping open another crate from a different pile. "Surface-to-air missiles. This whole area is weapons. Ten Rings weapons."

"In his house? Is he an idiot? Priceless looted art upstairs and he stores explosives?" John exclaimed.

Natasha snorted. "The Renoir's a glicee fake. He thought I was too stupid to notice."

"On the contrary," a sudden voice said from behind the crates.

Without needing to even look at each other, John went left while she went right to catch Shaw between them. Shaw continued, with entirely too much confidence, as he revealed he knew who he was hosting all along. "I thought the notorious Black Widow would know her art. And your companion, Natalya, he is a spy, too, obviously. Calderon recognized him before he asked me to kill him."

The threat didn't bother John. As long as Shaw kept talking, John knew where he was. In his ear, he heard Clint, _"He didn't come through here. Mission complete, but this place is going to be hot real soon_."

Which meant it was time to get out, and there was another entrance. But first, business.

John glimpsed Natasha's shoes on the floor, and she was out of sight as John crept around the crates.

"There's nowhere to go, Natalya," Shaw said.

Then the sound of a scuffle and Shaw slamming into a crate. "Who said I wanted to go anywhere?" she said in a low voice.

John rounded the edge of the crate to see Shaw fighting back. He wasn't all soft dilettante. He'd had training, sufficient to keep her back, and he tipped over a pile of crates at her, forcing her to leap out of the way as canisters spilled out between them.

Shaw saw the second person joining the fight and John's gun. And smiled.

"Calderon says hi," he called.

Somehow he thrust his hand **inside** the crate beside him. John stared, unsure what he was seeing. How the hell had he done that? What had he done? Was it some sort of trick?

But no, it was not. Shaw withdrew his hand and threw something toward John. John shot him in the head, a second before Natasha's kick hit him in the face and sent him falling.

John whirled and dove, trying to get out of the way. "Nat, run!" he yelled.

The grenade exploded, sending a shockwave over his back and pelting him with a debris, while he covered his head.

When the worst had passed he pushed himself up, making a quick evaluation whether he was hurt, but he seemed to be just bruised and battered, with some minor scrapes. It was oddly quiet, he realized, when he saw a wooden slat fall to the floor in front of him without sound. He shook his head, trying to clear it, but it was useless. Concussion deafness. Hopefully it would pass. It was strange not to hear himself cough though, as he turned to look at the situation.

He saw Natasha, her dress ruined, and from the look on her face she was yelling something, beckoning him to come toward her frantically. He turned his head to see what she was so afraid of - there were crates engulfed in flame all around him.

There was a white flash and another concussion blast, throwing him off his feet. And he saw nothing more.

* * *

tbc...


	8. Chapter 8

On the carrier, Phil watched through the window of ICU as John slept. Natasha was in there with him, sitting at his side.

She looked as if she might need a bed herself, with her hair singed off at the bottom, and her usually pale skin reddish with heat burn.

Phil had heard the comm when it all went to hell, from the van outside and up the street that was catching the upload of the computer data.

Shaw had said, "_Calderon says hi_."

Then Natasha's voice had yelled a warning, "_John_!"

Two blasts had interrupted comms with static, and Phil had thought of explosives and poison gas and the rest of the horrors down there. People had started coming out of the estate, too, as the house had shaken from the explosions.

There was the sound of coughing and Natasha calling, "_Clint! Clint, can you read me? John is down, Base, we need evac, we need emergency evac now_."

And Phil answered, "Evac on the way, Widow. Get out of there. Before that place blows up." So he called for a helicopter, fearing the worst.

"_Here, Nat. I'm downstairs, where are you? Shit, we gotta get out of here_."

Both of them coughed, then, and Natasha called more hoarsely, _"Here, Clint, I see you. Left_."

"_You're hurt - your hair's on fire, Nat - hold still - Let's go._"

"_We can't leave him_!"

"_Is he still alive_?"

"_Yes! Hurry_."

"_Okay, okay, here we go, come on, New Guy, help me out here - Okay, I've got him. Where's the other door_?"

Burdened with John's body, they panted and coughed. Phil heard the fire crackling, and the occasional command to get to the door. He heard nothing from John at all. It was terribly nerve-wracking and his hands clenched, praying they could get out.

He jumped out of the van to run to the estate, pulling his gun on the security guards who thought about stopping him. "Out of my way. Evacuate the house, right now, it's about to blow up."

He kept running. "Barton, Romanoff, report. Where are you?"

"_We found the door, and going up the stairs_," Barton said. "_Nat is_ -" There was a pause and the sound of gunfire as Romanoff cleared the way. "_Oh, this is the east wing, makes sense. Screw it, Nat, shoot the window_!"

There was another crack of a pistol and then glass breaking, and Phil heard that over his comm and in his other ear, too, in addition to the confused and panic-stricken guests who were starting to mill around. Everyone he passed he yelled at them to get away from the building.

Smoke was starting to pour out and flames were visible in the near windows. Finally he saw Barton and Romanoff. They each had an arm around John, who wasn't fully unconscious, since his feet were stumbling with them. But his head was hanging and his suit and dress shirt were shredded. The other two didn't look much better, though they were both walking more easily. Natasha's hair was shorter, she was barefoot, and beneath the remnants of fancy dress she looked burned and battered.

"Come on, John, come on," Natasha urged him, and then cried Phil's name when she lifted her head and saw him.

He hurried up to them. "Helicopter's on the way, we need to get to the back lawn. Here, I'll help."

He tried to take Natasha's place, since she looked the worse of the two, but John clutched her hand where she was grasping it to hold his arm in place over her shoulders, and didn't let go. He groaned something unintelligible that might have been her name, and Phil winced at the pain in his voice.

"I've got him," Natasha declared with such ferocity in her eyes that Phil took a step back.

"Okay. Barton?"

Clint gestured with his bow vaguely, and even though his eyes were streaming and red, and he coughed, he said, "Go."

So Phil led the way, and John passed out about halfway there, legs giving out as he slumped, deadweight. "John!" Natasha exclaimed in alarm and shifted her grip to check the pulse in his wrist. "He's okay."

Phil heard the helicopter as it flew up the sea inlet. "Land on the back lawn, near the water," he shouted instructions on the comm. "We're almost there."

The helicopter landed on the expanse of lawn in the back, and kept the rotors running as the assassins climbed aboard with some help from the medic. Some of the other party guests surged forward to try to get on, but Phil stood in their way. "Medical evacuation, back off." When they didn't get the point, he fired his gun into the dirt at the nearest feet, making a cloud of sod and dirt fly up. "Get back. Now."

Then keeping an eye on the vapid, panicked guests, he moved backward and climbed up into the open hatch. "Okay, you're a go for lift-off."

The chopper lifted off, and Phil pulled the hatch shut, closing off a bit of the noise and most of the wind.

When he turned, the SHIELD medic was helping Natasha and Clint lay John onto the stretcher and examining him. Flat on his back in the brighter light of the cargo area, he didn't look as bad as Phil had feared. There were no open wounds, and although he looked just as singed as the other two with a reddish-pallid skin of a heat burn, only his breathing indicated something more deeply wrong, as he wheezed shallowly and unsteadily. The medic gently felt along his chest, probing, and reached a spot that drew a flinch, even in unconsciousness. She glanced at Phil, reporting, "I need an x-ray, but at least one rib broken, and smoke inhalation, for certain." She placed an oxygen mask, checked vitals, and set up an i.v. with deft skilled fingers.

"So he'll be okay?" Natasha demanded when that was done.

"Let's get him to a more thorough evaluation on the carrier, Agent," the medic answered and frowned in concern. Phil got an uneasy tingle down his spine that the medic suspected something was wrong, but didn't want to say until they'd got John to a doctor.

But it all seemed well enough, once they got to the carrier. Evaluation turned out that he'd got off lucky, with a concussion where he'd hit his head against the floor, and cracked ribs from the concussion blast and general pain from the heat flash burn and thrown around.

Yet because he remained unconscious he was still in ICU, and Natasha had stayed with him once she'd showered, changed into clean clothes and chopped off the singed bits of her hair so it was now shoulder length. She'd done a hasty job of it, so Phil knew it would have to get even shorter to look decent, but she didn't seem to care, as long as it didn't smell burned anymore.

He went into the small room full of its monitors and shut the door behind him. "Natasha, how is he?"

"Asleep," she answered. He intended to tell her to get some rest, but then she kept talking, quietly, "You didn't see it, Phil. Shaw put his hand right _into_ one of the crates, pulled out some kind of grenade I've never seen before, and threw it at John."

"_Into_"? That meant Shaw had inherited more than his grandfather's money - he'd inherited his grandfather's mutant gene. No one had seen it or reported it, and it hadn't been in his file. Not that it would have made much of a difference, probably, but at least his team would have been more prepared for something freaky.

Natasha continued, "And the crates caught fire. John got back on his feet, but then something else exploded. Some kind of flash-bang right in his face and he was thrown. I thought he was dead."

"Doctor Farhan says he should be fine. That he's already healing up quicker than normal."

She nodded once. "He should wake soon." She didn't take her eyes from him, and Phil moved up beside her closely.

"Are you all right?" he asked in a soft voice, figuring it would probably be futile, but needing to make the offer.

"Fine." She answered, and he pressed her shoulder in a gesture of commiseration even if she didn't want to share with him. Staying at John's bedside meant she wasn't totally fine, but that was okay - he didn't want her to feel nothing. That was no way to live. She didn't shrug off his hand either, letting it stay on his shoulder, and Phil knew that was a measure of her concern.

"He'll be okay, Natasha," Phil murmured. "All three of you made it out."

She nodded, and he withdrew his hand with another small squeeze.

Whether it was the sound of their voices or not, John stirred, moving his head and letting out a groan behind the oxygen mask, there to help ease his breathing when his lungs were still battered from cracked ribs and smoke.

Natasha tensed, hands fisted in her lap, as she watched.

His eyes flickered, showing glimpses of blue and still very red and irritated whites, and the hand free of the i.v. lifted to try to claw the mask off, gasping at the pain of the movement but persisting anyway. He was a stubborn bastard, but then Phil had known that.

"No, John, you need it," Natasha told him and grabbed his hand to pull it away than set the mask back again. "John, can you hear me?"

He settled at the sound of her voice or touch of her hand and blinked his eyes, frowning deeply. He looked upward, squinting and blinking.

"John, can you hear me?" she asked again and his head turned toward her.

"Nat?" he asked hoarsely. Then he raised a shaking hand back to his face to touch above the mask. "Nat, is it - is it dark?" And his voice trembled as though he knew.

Phil felt cold instantly with shock of realization, as he saw John's gaze wasn't looking **at** Natasha, only in her general direction.

Natasha's eyes met Phil's, wide with horror.

"I'll get the doctor," Phil told her and hurried toward the door.

* * *

John had woken in pain before; it was nothing new. He was a bit surprised that he was waking up at all, since he remembered the fire in Shaw's basement. But to wake up with his head pounding and his body aching and ribs pinching his breath, was familiar. The haze of drugs wasn't different either, nor how they both muffled the pain and yet did nothing about it.

Natasha's voice was new though, drawing his attention and pulling him out of clinging cobwebs of sleep. At first, she sounded far away, echo-y, but after a moment, his hearing cleared.

He blinked, trying to open his eyes. His eyes hurt, too. They felt dry and stung, and when he thought they were open, he saw nothing. At all. It was all blackness.

He lifted a hand to make sure he wasn't wearing something covering his eyes or on his face besides the itchy oxygen mask and touched his eyelids, to prove that they were open and were moving. "Nat, is it - is it dark?" he asked. He could hear the machines of the room, the quiet beeping of the pulse monitor, and feel the distant thrum of the helicarrier's engines. Maybe they'd turned off the lights to spare his vision since his eyes hurt.

But when Natasha's hand curled around his own, he knew. Before she answered, he knew. Even before he heard Coulson's sudden voice announce he was going to get the doctor, he knew.

"No," Natasha murmured, and sounded as if she'd rather be saying any other words than these, "No, John, it's not dark in here. Can you see… nothing at all? No shadows, or lights?"

He turned his head, trying to see, but there was nothing. He shook his head a little, shutting his eyes and clenching his jaw at the jolt in his head.

Natasha's fingers tightened on his. "You… you have a concussion, maybe there's some swelling or something. Doctor Farhan should be here soon."

But he remembered the flash and he didn't think this had anything to do with a bump on the head. He'd heard of soldiers blinded by proximity to flash-bangs or other explosives.

_Blinded_. He couldn't be a sniper, couldn't be a soldier, couldn't be an agent, couldn't do any of the things he'd trained to do without seeing.

"Shhh," Natasha whispered, her thumb stroking his hand, and he realized he was making a soft noise in the back of his throat. He tried to swallow it back, but the drugs made the effort weak and sound even more pathetic, before he got it under control.

A sudden touch on his face made him start. "It's me," she whispered. "We're alone in the room." Then in a more matter-of-fact voice, she described the room: its dimensions, the bed, the chair she was sitting on, the machines. It was still darkness but at least he could somewhat imagine it now, it wasn't all a black void around him.

He swallowed and mumbled thanks into the mask.

There was a brief pause and then she said, "You're welcome." Then she added, "Doctor Farhan and Phil are here. When they kick me out, I'll be waiting outside."

He forced himself to let go of her hand. It was hard, and he immediately felt adrift. He kept closing his eyes and rubbing at them, as if that would magically make his eyes work, but it didn't help.

Farhan had a business-like but warm voice, good bedside manner, as he asked John about what he could see, and then examined John's eyes, peeling back his lids and keeping dry fingers on John's face while his coffee-breath was in John's nose. "We already did a CT scan and we'll do an MRI of your head too so I can send the results to our neurologist. And I need an ophthalmologist consult."

"Anything you need, Doctor, of course." Coulson said from the door.

Farhan left to make arrangements and Coulson came near. "John, to put your mind at ease, I'm sure you're thinking that you can't work for us anymore. But so you know," his hand gripped John's, "you're part of the SHIELD family now, and we'll find a way."

John nodded tiredly but at least the words were somewhat reassuring. "Thanks."

He closed his eyes since that was less uncomfortable, and soon fell asleep, slipping one from one darkness into another.

* * *

tbc...


	9. Chapter 9

After the results of the tests came in, Phil had to report to Fury.

"What the hell happened?" Fury gestured angrily to the written report. "My new recruit sidelined on his first mission? Blinded?"

"I have a team sifting the mansion ruins now, but Ten Rings was storing exotic weaponry under Shaw's place. I planned to give some of it to Stark to look at and figure out where it comes from."

Fury gestured that away sharply as irrelevant. "You're telling me we _stumbled_ onto this?" Fury demanded. "We didn't even know that basement existed until our agents were on scene?" he scowled. "Worse, let me spell it out for you: we _did not know_ Shinobi Shaw had a mutant talent? That is _unacceptable_, Agent Coulson. We need to know more before we send our field agents into work."

"Yes, sir. I agree."

Fury glowered at the file then up at Phil, with a heavy sigh. "So. Is it permanent?"

Phil nodded, feeling even worse. "Seems likely, boss. Doctor Farhan said it's a burned retina and optic nerve. There's a remote chance that Reese's improved genetics may heal it, since he's got a bit of an accelerated healing factor, but right now, there's nothing there. I think we got lucky the blast didn't blind Romanoff and Barton, too."

"I don't see anything 'lucky' about this at all, Agent Coulson."

"No, boss. Of course not."

"Any fancy tech solution out there? Cyber-eyes, something like that?" Fury asked impatiently. "Surely our labs have something."

"Nothing I know of, though you could make it a research priority."

"Yes, do that. And talk to Stark about it, too. Maybe Stark Industries has something he can bump up the priority." Fury clenched his fists and hit the top of his desk. "Well, damn. This wasn't how this was supposed to play out."

Phil was tempted to ask how it was supposed to have gone but he didn't. At the very least Fury had wanted John to use his field work talents and that was over, at least for now, unless some technological miracle happened.

"Boss," Phil started and then wasn't quite sure how he wanted to say this, except he wanted to confirm what he'd told John. "Agent Romanoff tells me that the airstrike in Ordos, China, was the Agency trying to assassinate him."

Fury's sole eye fixed on him, and he knew exactly what Phil was trying to ask. "We will not sink to their level. He remains on the payroll. We take care of it all, Coulson: his medical, his recovery, a new identity including a fucking job, if necessary. I don't want to hear _anyone_ say that we don't take care of our own, not ever."

Relieved by the declaration, Coulson nodded. "I'll tell him."

"No, I will," Fury said. "I'll go talk to him. Give him a pep talk."

Coulson was pretty sure only Fury could make 'pep talk' sound quite so much like a threat.

* * *

John checked the wrap of his hospital gown, making sure that he was decently covered. It would be all too easy to let something hang out when he couldn't see it. Not that he cared all that much - modesty had little place in the military or anywhere else he'd been - but he didn't want to do it accidentally.

Then, sure that he was alone in his room, even though there was probably video monitoring, he swung his bare feet to the floor and groped for the stand of his i.v. He found it was easier to close his eyes and not strain to try to see something he couldn't anyway. And this way he could pretend that if he opened his eyes, things would change, even though he knew they wouldn't.

Then hand wrapped around the stand he used that to leverage himself to his feet, holding out his other hand. He couldn't find his balance at first, dizzy and sore all over, but he clenched his jaw and waited until he steadied.

Haltingly, he explored the small room, and keeping a part of his body touching the bed, he touched all he could, learning where everything was within immediate reach of the bed. Which went well until he tripped over the foot of a table or some damn thing and went flying. "Damn it!"

His hands hit first with thumps on the floor, and then his ribs seemed to stab him inside, and he couldn't breathe through the sudden pain. After a moment, it eased and he tried to catch his breath without jarring his ribs or his head again. God, that had been stupid. He stayed there on the floor for a moment, resting his cheek against the cool linoleum, before he moved his hand around to find the wall and pull himself up to sit against it.

Fucking useless. Couldn't even navigate next to his own bed.

He tried to tell himself that people dealt with this all the time, that he could relearn to get around. But the words sounded hollow and he didn't believe them. It seemed pointless, when he had nothing else he was good at.

There was not much need for blind ex-assassins or sightless spies. Or visually impaired retired Army sergeants for that matter.

"Agent Reese?" a familiar but surprising voice of Director Fury questioned from the far side of the room, near the door.

John pulled himself to his feet, keeping a hand on the wall. "Yeah. Here. I'm… adjusting."

"On the floor? Interesting choice," Fury said dryly. He shut the door and his shoes made soft clicks on the floor, coming closer, and then a strong hand closed on John's elbow. "I'd let you do it yourself, but there's a stool in the way." Fury sent the stool spinning off toward the wall and pulled John back to the bed. "There, now sit down and we can talk."

John perched on the bed and tugged the sheet across his lap, more for something to hold onto than modesty's sake.

"I'm gonna sit here, across from you," Fury said and dragged the chair closer across the flooring, making a screech that seemed to cut into John's head. He shut his eyes tightly as a flare seemed to pass across his vision along with a renewed ache behind his forehead.

"So. Blind," Fury announced without preamble or softening it. John was at first struck by the blunt words, then relieved not to dance around it with false sympathy. "I remember when I lost my eye. It wasn't the same, I know, but it wasn't fun. Losing both is worse. But it happened in our service, and I am not those assholes who tried to cut you loose when you got inconvenient. They tell me there's a chance you might heal up yourself, and I've made it a priority for R&D to look for some technological fix. Hell, maybe there's magic that can help - at this point in my life, I am way fucking past second-guessing what's out there. But this I promise, I will look for it. And in the meantime, you get what you need. You want a private braille tutor, it's yours. You want a fancy white cane that you can stab people with if they fuck with you, it's yours."

John had to smile a little at that.

"There," Fury said. "Amusement is better than self-pity. Now about the rest of you? You look… better."

"I'm better," John answered. He wasn't one hundred percent, but he didn't need to be, did he? He wasn't going back into the field.

"Good. Now I want to know something - Romanoff said you were targeted in Ordos. Why? Other than general pain-in-the-ass-ness."

John hesitated. It felt like quid-pro-quo - give Fury the answer in return for support now that he was basically helpless as a kitten. But what the hell did it matter anymore? It wasn't as if the Agency had done anything to buy his silence on the topic. "Mostly that, I think," John answered heavily. "I wanted out, and they weren't real good about letting that happen. I know too much. But the mission was fubared from the start - everyone was already dead when we got there. We were supposed to retrieve a prototype computer, but it was gone. It didn't seem like a Chinese government op, but I don't know who was behind it. I was a bit busy not dying afterward to track it down." And then busy letting himself die, but he kept that part back.

"And if you had to guess?" Fury prompted.

John hesitated to think about it, but there was only one thing that had made sense to him. "Someone wanted that thing very badly and were covering their tracks to get it. Some traitor at the Agency with enough power to make it all happen."

Fury made a thoughtful sound. "Seems like that place could use a housecleaning."

Which was true enough. "Secrecy breeds corruption."

"And you mean to point that at me," Fury observed dryly.

"Your bosses could be the same people who tried to kill me. When you work in the shadows, all the faces look the same." He thought about the vision metaphor and gave a little wry grimace. "Well, they did, anyway."

"All right, I'll give this some thought and we'll poke at it, see what I can shake loose. I'd like to find enough to hold over them to leave you alone, at least." His clothes rustled as he stood up. "Where do you want us to set up a place for you? When they let you out of this fucking cave?"

John didn't have to think about it too hard. "New York. Somewhere near where you've got Rogers stashed. I know the area and I can get around without a driver."

Fury sounded like he was smiling - it was kind of unnerving. "Ah, excellent idea. Carry on, Mister Reese, get yourself better."

When Fury had gone and for lack of anything better to do, John felt for his cup of water, drank, and then carefully put it back, feeling with his other hand to make sure he was putting the cup on the tray flat. It took about four times longer doing it by touch, and he was feeling disgruntled as he lay back in the bed and closed his eyes.

* * *

A voice from the doorway stirred him from his bored daze. "You can't possibly be asleep still," Natasha chided, but sounded teasing, too. She closed the door behind her and came up to the bedside. "You look better."

"You look… hell if I know. How are you?" he asked, trying to make a joke but it came out rather bitterly. He hoped she didn't notice or wouldn't comment on it, but since he couldn't see her face, he didn't know. Not that Natasha was easy to read anyway, but it would be even harder to decipher from her voice alone.

She ignored the question. "John…" Then she stopped and inhaled a deep breath. "I don't know what to say," she admitted softly. "This should never have happened. I'm so … sorry."

He held out a hand, patiently keeping it out until she took it with hers. "It's not your fault."

"I know, but… If I could go back and do it again...I should have shot him first."

"He was unarmed, or so we thought," he reminded her. "We didn't know he could do that. Whatever the hell that was."

"Mutant power," she said. "I should have shot him the moment he threatened you. I knew he was planning something." Her thumb was lightly sliding across his fingers in a repetitive soothing motion, though he was unsure if she was trying to soothe him or herself. Her voice had a faint tremor she was trying to suppress, but he could hear it anyway.

"I shouldn't have stared at him and moved sooner when he pulled the grenade. So it was my mistake, Nat, not yours."

Her free hand touched his face and her fingers caressed his cheek. "Would you absolve me of everything?" she murmured. "The Black Widow takes another victim..."

"I'm still alive, Natasha." He thought of Jessica and the thousands in Ordos, and others, reaching back to that boy in the home, who weren't living, because of him. "And I have my own curse of death following me, wherever I go. Maybe this is my punishment - justice for -"

Her fingers laid across his lips, stopping his voice, even as hers turned ragged, "No. It was an accident, a stupid accident-"

He pulled her fingers away. "Natalya." Then he brought them back to his lips to kiss, and held them. "You and I both - we've done awful things. We wanted to make them right, even though we know the ledgers are awash in blood. But this - I'm not going to be able to join you now. I can't see, I can't fight - can't help. It's over."

"You don't need your eyes to see, John," Natasha murmured. And he felt breath and warmth an instant before her lips touched his. He froze, shocked.

"Nat?"

"What is it you tell me?" she asked in a murmur, fingers caressing his cheek. "You're more, too, John."

He reached out, finding the side of her arm and then he caressed up to her shoulder to her neck and the back of her head to put his fingers in her hair. It was much shorter than he expected. "You cut it."

"It got burned in the fire," she answered.

"It feels so soft," he whispered, combing his fingers through it and the nape of her neck, and coaxed her nearer.

They kissed again, this time hungrily, and she slid a leg across to kneel above him as she leaned down. Her hand was light on his chest, careful of his bruising and healing ribs, and her fingers slipped beneath the cotton of the hospital gown, feeling him as if she had to learn him with her fingers as much as he had to with her.

Keeping his eyes closed and kissing her, touching her, felt perfect, as if he'd fallen into some dream. His hands slid across her shoulders and bare arms, and then her back and sides, learning her lithe muscles and curves that now he could only remember seeing.

She murmured in Russian, pressing against him, and laughed softly when he returned the phrases in Arabic, before returning her mouth to his to silence them both.

His fingers opened the buttons of her shirt and slipped down along her stomach that tightened under his touch and deeper still, "Oh, John."

"I hate not being able to see this," he muttered.

She grabbed his other hand and brought it to her face, letting him touch her lips and feel her breaths, and then down her neck to feel the sweat between her breasts. "You can. It's just as real."

Her hips teased him, moving with slow precision, and he wished desperately he could see her like this, shirt and bra undone and rising above him in a glory of all that was beautiful.

The feel of her slick leggings against his arousal pounded through him. And he couldn't see her, but he could touch her and he could smell both the sweat and the tang that hit the back of his throat. Plus he could hear her voice, hoarse and soft, in time with her short breaths.

But he tried to will himself to see, to know what she looked like at this moment, as the pressure grew and grew, and he could feel his own heart beat thumping and hear it in his ears.

"Natasha…" he groaned.

The springs of the cot were complaining rhythmically with her motions, and seemed to echo.

And then, for one glorious miraculous moment, he _saw_ her.

The image came to him, not seeing her as he knew she looked, but like a ghost in the darkness. Light and transparent, but … shining. There was no color, but he could see Natasha and her face and the long line of her throat and his hands on her. Like a sketch of light against the darkness, almost like a night-vision scope but in shades of silver, like picture drawn with strands of starlight.

He gasped in surprise and wonder that lasted through the finish. And he didn't need eyes for this, only his touch to bring them both to completion.

He caressed her slowly bringing her down, as she gained her breath and then folded herself across him again to kiss him languidly, uncaring of the mess they'd made between them.

"I told you _after_," she murmured between nips. "After the mission."

Cold reality intruded and he held a sigh. "Nat-"

Her free hand drifted across his shoulder to his neck to press at the carotid pressure point. "If I hear any sort of noble self-sacrificing words out of you, John Reese, I will push this. I'm not better off without you."

"But Clint - "

"Is my partner, and I owe him, but he's not the one here with me right now," she said, and sounded as if she was smiling. She leaned down to feather her breath across his face again, deliberately tracing his features, forehead to chin, ear to ear. "You and I don't know how to do 'normal'. Neither of us ever had it. Maybe we never will. But we know how to fight for what we want, and I want you. I want you to fight for me, too."

His hands crept up her back, beneath her opened blouse to lay his palms on her skin and caress either side of her spine and hold her near, for a moment simply lost in the wonder of her words. "Yes. Yes, always. I just… I don't know where to go from here. What would you do?"

She laid her head on his chest. "I don't know," she admitted after a moment. "We'll figure it out. As we go."

He closed his eyes and pulled a lock of her hair through his fingers - mostly soft, but he could feel the bit of the curl still in it in the way it sprang free.

"John, in the middle, what happened? I saw your face - like something happened that surprised you."

So he described what happened, and she propped herself up on a pointy elbow into his chest. "John, that sounds like… some sort of… sixth sense. Maybe that grenade did something else to you…"

He'd thought it was just an artifact of lust and that moment's need to see her, manifesting in a hallucination, but she seemed determined to prove that it was something else.

But he was able to persuade her to wait to tell anyone about it, for the selfish reason of wanting her warmth on top of him as long as possible.

* * *

tbc...


	10. Chapter 10

The next time it happened however was the very unsexy crash of his breakfast tray as he overturned it on the way back from the restroom. The metal tray, utensils, bowl and cup all fell to the floor in a loud, startling cacophony.

For an instant afterward, he saw the outlines of the chair and the tray table like chalk outlines on a blackboard, but brighter and with some shading of shape.

Sound. It had to be the sound waves. Like radar. No, like a bat. Echo-fucking-location.

Then it was dark again. He snapped his fingers, hoping to see it again, but nothing. He groped around in the mess on the floor until he found the spoon and the lowered metal bed rail and tapped them together, creating a nice clear tone. Nothing happened.

He tried again, trying to concentrate and make it happen, but with no idea how to do it.

"Agent Reese?" the confused, appalled voice of Nurse Ramon questioned.

"Go away," he ordered. "And shut the door."

When all was all silent again, he waited patiently and banged the spoon again on the metal railing. He could very nearly feel the sound waves in the air, but there was no vision.

He was tempted to be annoyed, but tamped it down, holding onto the patience he'd had to cultivate in years of waiting for things to happen. This was a new talent, and he needed to figure out how to activate it.

* * *

By the time Phil got the report that Agent Reese was going crazy in his room, banging his silverware on his bed, and made it down to the infirmary, Natasha, two orderlies, and Nurse Ramon were there, too.

Phil glanced in through the window and saw John groping on the floor to gather the fallen items of his tray. Heedless of the spilled water and a bit of oatmeal, he gathered everything up on the tray and his expression was set and determined. It seemed like an excellent thing for him to be doing, really, if he'd spilled a tray. Phil was certainly not going to get in the way of John flexing some independence.

"This seems fine," he observed. "Why am I here?"

"Wait, sir. He's done it twice," the nurse said.

Phil noticed he'd missed a cup that had gone rolling away, but after making a sweep for it, John stood up without it. He had the tray in his hands and then dropped it. Everyone but Natasha flinched as it fell, and she, Phil noticed, seemed pleased by what John was doing, not concerned about his behavior.

"What the hell is he doing?" Phil asked, peering inside.

But then something startling happened - John looked toward the door. He didn't just turn his face in the direction of the door as if he heard them there, he looked at the window. Then with a smile on his face, he said, "You can come in, Coulson. I can see you."

That caught Phil flatfooted long enough for Natasha to wriggle past him inside. "You did it again?" she asked eagerly.

He nodded. "It worked."

"What worked?" Phil asked, picking his way across the floor which was now a total mess of breakfast bits, water, and dishware. He wasn't so busy looking at his feet that he missed the way John and Natasha's hands brushed, and since Natasha did nothing accidentally, she must have meant to touch him.

John explained, "Turns out I have some sort of sound-based vision. It's just a flash, during the noise, but it gives me a glowing outline of things, but it's pretty accurate. Almost night-vision in front of me."

Phil listened, amazed. "That's… good." He might have been more amazed if he hadn't seen the Destroyer from another world and Captain America coming back from the dead, but he was getting used to odd things. At least this was an odd thing that was good. "A miracle even."

"Don't know about that. I've only done it three times and it doesn't last -"

"Training," Natasha interrupted. "It's like anything else. You need to train it."

Phil nodded. "We'll have to do some tests."

"Why? He's fine. It's a good thing." Natasha challenged, glaring at him as if she might break his arm for daring to suggest otherwise. Phil made a mental note not to get between her and John. It was interesting to see how protective she was of him, when he couldn't fight for himself.

"Yes, of course. But if something in that weapons store did this, we need to know what it did and how. And make sure it's not doing something else to John." Phil paused, reluctant to mention it, but added, "The other children who grew up in the lab with John developed genetic diseases."

"That eventually killed them," John added softly and his expression darkened with sorrow, bowing his head. Natasha moved nearer to him, her shoulder brushing his. When they stayed touching, Phil smiled inwardly, now sure.

Phil added, "I'm not saying that's going to happen now. And I don't mean to crush your excitement, because getting any vision back at all is amazing, but I think we should all be sure about what's going on."

"That sounds smart," John agreed.

"I'll talk to Doctor Farhan." But because Phil didn't want to leave on that note, he reached out to squeeze John's shoulder. "I still think it's a miracle. Be back soon. Don't get up to anything you don't want me to see," he teased for the sheer joy of seeing them both turn a bit pink. Oh yes, that would teach them for thinking they had secrets.

At the door he glanced back. John was trying to make it back to his bed, and his foot was about to come down on the cup, but Natasha's foot lashed out to kick it away, as she gripped his elbow. "Let me help. There's crap all over the floor."

"Turns out echolocation requires a mess, who knew?" he joked.

She snorted. "I foresee a housekeeper in your future."

Phil left them to it, shaking his head.

* * *

John sat on the bed, a kids xylophone across his lap. He knew it had baby animal pictures on it and probably was different colors, but it had eight notes. The problem was striking them - he had to find each metal bar with his fingers, but he couldn't touch it as he tapped it with the small hammer. His aim was not the best, at first.

The door opened and John automatically turned his head that way, though it felt stupid the instant he did it.

"Hey," Barton greeted and deposited himself on the chair with a creak of the faux-leather seat. "Came to see how you're doing. Have you learned to play 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' yet?" he teased.

John really wished he could bang out the notes, but that wasn't what he was doing. He shook his head. "I'm trying to find the right tone to make it work again, but it's not any of these." John shrugged, trying not to be discouraged, but the vision hadn't happened again since the breakfast tray and all he had to show for his attempts afterward was an ache in his ribs and head, and an irritable temper. He put the xylophone aside and heard the little mallet start to roll off. John tried to catch it, but missed completely, banging his hand on the wheeled table.

"I've got it," Barton said, and moved the instrument away to the bedstand. "It's like any new skill, it takes practice. But I am sorry you need it at all."

"Yeah."

"But on the bright side," Barton added more lightly, "you don't have to worry about me kicking your ass at the range."

John snorted, unexpectedly amused by the reminder. "I'll have to take a rain check. But I don't know if this new vision'll ever be accurate enough."

Barton's hand closed on his forearm with warm strength. "It'll be what it is. I'm just sorry we didn't do it before. I hope we can, it'll be fun. And if you want my help for training, I'm there."

"Thanks. I'd settle for the on-switch."

"All right. Let's work on that," Barton offered.

With a sniper's patience, Barton tried every combination of sounds he could in the entire room - the spoon against the tray, the pencil on the wall, even breaking a glass on the floor much to nursing's dismay. But the one that actually worked, was the simplest - he struck two wooden pencils together.

The image of Barton's shape formed against the black and before John lost it, he grabbed the little rubber mallet for the xylophone and hurled it. The image faded before he saw it hit, but he knew the trajectory was good and he heard it smack Barton's chest and the exclamation of surprise. "Hey!" Then Barton's voice changed to pleased excitement, "It worked!"

"Try the pencils again. I want to figure this out."

* * *

John stood in the training room they made for him. Punching bags hung from the ceiling, and the game was to make it across the room without touching them.

In his hand he held a castanet, to make the loud, sharp sound that seemed to work best. _Click_.

He got a view of the arrangement and as it faded, he clicked again, as he walked forward. Rounding one bag, he discovered a new obstacle of one on the floor. "Hey!"

Natasha's voice came over the intercom. "_I never said they'd all be hanging_."

Then Clint's voice joined in, "_She made me do it._"

"You're both cheaters," John replied. "Now shut up so I can concentrate."

Clint said, _"If it's sound, it should be all sound, shouldn't it? Why not voice? Or singing_."

"_If you start singing, Barton, I'm going to have to make you stop_," Natasha threatened, only half-seriously.

John clicked the castanet again and the resulting image was precise enough that he could step over the bag on the floor and even though it faded, he remembered the position of the next well enough to avoid it. He passed two more bags, while his friends were thankfully silent, and then he heard the far door open.

He didn't hear anyone come in - it was Natasha then - so it wasn't a complete surprise when she 'adjusted' the rules of the game again. But it was a surprise when he heard a thump against one of the bags and the next bag moved, swinging toward him. He barely leaned out of the way in time.

"Natasha! Dirty cheater!" he exclaimed.

"But you did it," she replied, smugly. "I knew you could."

"Thank you for your support," he grumbled in her general direction and clicked the castanet again, to reorient himself.

It was a strange sort of feeling that he was beginning to learn how to use consciously - a sort of _reaching_ - but once he had it, it was easier to do it again, like knowing where the switch was finally.

So he _reached_ and saw the glimmering outlines of the bags in his way that wavered with each click, but as he clicked rapidly, the images stabilized into near solidity.

"Good," Natasha coaxed from the side. "You're moving faster, with more assurance. Keep going."

He'd reached the last two bags, which she'd started swinging to play games with him, and he was clicking and trying to time the passage between them, when a vicious pain lanced through his head. It was so abrupt and agonizing, he dropped the castanet and bent to hold his head, gasping. "Oh God."

"Clint, call the doctor!" Natasha called and rushed to John's side, wrapping a strong arm around his back. "John? What is it?"

"Head. Like a spike in my brain. Oh God, this is worse than the concussion…" Consumed by the fire behind his eyes and in his brain, he staggered to his knees, Natasha at his side, keeping him upright and stroking the back of his neck.

* * *

tbc...


	11. Chapter 11

His collapse prompted yet another round of exceptionally boring scans and tests. By the time they were all over, the pain had faded away.

Doctor Farhan reported when John was back in the bed, "There was nothing alarming in your results - no cranial pressure problem, foreign mass, or clot. The neurologist is checking for minor strokes, but I think what it was - well, it was eyestrain, for lack of a better word. You're trying to make your brain do something it wasn't designed for, Mister Reese. Do it slowly."

John grimaced. He didn't want to do it slowly. He wanted to be able to use it all the time.

Coulson asked, "Does this mean John can be released from the infirmary?"

"I'd like him to be near medical care still," Farhan said, "With someone who's familiar with his… condition, but yes, he's healthy enough to go. In fact, he's released from the infirmary to quarters right now."

John raised his brows at Coulson. "Oh? You got someplace for me to be?"

"The apartment above Captain Rogers went vacant, and we've acquired it," Coulson answered. "I figured you might like to be near him."

John remembered Fury's tone of eagerness when John had mentioned a place near Rogers, and figured that the apartment hadn't gone vacant by chance. "Plus then you only need one SHIELD team to keep an eye on us," John pointed out.

"That, too," Coulson agreed easily. "Workers have been in there two days making it more useful to you. And there's already a basement training area for Captain Rogers."

Something - pride, maybe - jerked in resistance to the idea of being under SHIELD's eyes but it wasn't like he was ready to go out on his own, either. It wasn't just his new vision that needed training; he still had to learn how to do basic things like organize clothes without knowing what the colors were or how to use money. He knew there were ways, but he had to learn them. "I can't really say no, can I?" John said.

"You can," Coulson said. "If you want. I know it's a bit heavy-handed of us, but it's a compromise while you get yourself adapted. Then we can talk again about where you can fit into the organization. Your knowledge base is extensive so I think you could go into analysis pretty easily. There are definitely options for later."

"Good to know," John responded. Except boring. Boring as hell. 'Deskjob' was an insult or a swear word in his vocabulary, not a viable line of work.

Except it was what he had left.

Since preparations were underway for him to leave the carrier, he was pretty sure that Natasha and Clint were both headed for reassignment rather than going with him to New York to keep him company.

Clint came first into John's small compartment. "Nat will be along in a few." He settled himself on the only chair and put something metallic on the desk, but John deliberately didn't try to see what it was, under orders to let his brain rest. "I uh…" Clint started. "I don't quite know how to put this, before she gets here…"

"You want to warn me away?" John suggested dryly.

"No," Clint protested, sounding sincerely as if he hadn't thought of that. "I mean, she can take care of herself, anyway, but actually I wanted to say the opposite. She's opened up with you. It's good to see."

"It's probably bad timing, is what it is," John murmured. "Whatever it is."

"Is there such a thing as good timing for personal attachments? In our business?" Clint countered. "But without them, we'd still be murdering people for a living, right?"

There was some truth to that, John thought. Once they all took that step to come back across the line, to reject the loneliness and inhumanity, basic human feelings were impossible to shut out. It was what they wanted - not the pain of loss, but to feel alive again.

The door opened again and Natasha entered, perching cross-legged at the foot of John's bed. Her knee brushed his foot. "Hey. Clint, did you tell him? We're getting new assignments."

"We didn't get to that yet," Clint added and pressed a cold can against John's hand. "Here, it's beer. I smuggled a six-pack on board in my bag when I got recalled. Figured tonight was the best night to drink it."

John held up the can and the others clinked it. That was enough sound that when he tried, he could see them, faintly, these two friends. "To successful missions. What are you up to, if you can say?"

"I'm babysitting some scientist at SHIELD's R&D facility," Clint said as if he was already bored with it. "He's behaving a bit oddly, and they want me to keep an eye on it."

"You have my sympathies," John told him. "At least my babysitting involved threatening mob bosses with Captain America. Nat?"

"Georgi Luchkov. They traced some of the weapons in Shaw's basement to him, so I'm going to ask him some questions."

"Ah, have fun then. Punch him in the face for me," he told her, and held back a sigh that they had no matching question to ask him about his assignment. But no, his assignment was to try not to drown in his own self-pity and adjust to his new life. "Coulson said there's a chair in analysis with my name on it."

"That sucks, man," Clint said, and there was a sound as Natasha smacked him and John saw a brief flicker of her reproving glare.

"Clint."

"I'm just saying, that'd be hard to get used to," he added defensively. "It's important work, I know that. But I can tell John isn't thrilled about it, and neither of us would be either."

John made sure they both knew Clint's words didn't bother him. "No, I'm not thrilled. It sounds like watching grass grow. but it's something, I guess."

"It is something," Natasha said. "You can steal Phil's job and be my handler."

She said it plainly with only a trace of a tease, and he still smiled, tempted to make the obvious rejoinder of handling her all over, but not with Clint there. So John cleared his throat and said instead, "I could tell you bad jokes on comms."

"I get enough of that from Clint," she teased.

"They're good jokes," Clint protested, and they all laughed.

It was an easy, fun evening as they drank the six pack Clint had brought, then when the beer was gone. Clint climbed to his feet with a groan and stretch. "Heading off to bed. My exit's early tomorrow."

John held out his hand for Clint's firm grip. "Hey. Watch yourself out there, babysitting or not."

"You too, John. I'll drop by when I'm in the city."

"Door's open. Anytime, Hawkeye," John promised.

Barton chuckled. "We need to find you a code name, don't we? I'll think about it while I'm bored at the base. G'night. Nat, I'll see you tomorrow."

The door opened and closed, and Natasha confirmed, "He's gone."

"You're on the early flight out, too?" John asked in disappointment.

"Yes, but it doesn't matter. I'm flying to Moscow. So a very long, very boring day awaits." She stretched a leg across him to sit on his lap and her fingers started efficiently undoing his shirt buttons. "I need some good memories to relieve the tedium."

That made him smile. "I'd like to help you with that."

She opened his shirt and shoved it off his shoulders, before she put her warm hands on his skin, while his lips found hers.

* * *

John could tell from the voice that it was the same nice female agent who had driven him to Rogers' apartment two weeks ago and who now took his elbow and shouted above the rotors, "This way, sir."

She helped him out of the helicopter. He was able to do it from body memory pretty well - he knew how high off the ground the floor was, and where to watch for the skids, but there was no question that he wanted the help as they approached the rotor path. He didn't try to reach for his special vision either, worried the noise would overload it. As Farhan and some other docs had told him, he needed not to lean on it too heavily. It was all too tempting to try to use it all the time, to compensate for what he'd lost, but after the second disabling migraine he knew that it wasn't smart to push too hard either.

They went inside the stairwell of the roof and then she gripped his arm tightly, holding him back, "Wait!" He froze and she said hastily, "There are steps. I should've said something." As he cautiously found each step before he put his weight on his foot, she paced him, tucking his hand around her elbow for support. "Sorry, I'm not used to this. I'm a nurse and an agent, but I don't have any experience with this kind of recovery. I'll be more careful. And I wanted to say I'm sorry this happened to you. I hope you like the apartment. We had some specialists in to organize it and one of them will be by this afternoon to start helping you."

"I'm sure it'll be fine," he said. They reached the end of the flight of stairs and out the fire door to the hall he remembered.

"There's an elevator this way." She guided him down the short hallway. "You're down the next level. This whole building is SHIELD's, by the way, so you don't have to worry about civilians." In the elevator she let him touch the buttons. He couldn't read braille yet, but it was interesting how he was able to feel the differences in the bumps, when he'd never noticed before. And the elevator now talked in a chipper female voice, "_Level two_," when he pushed the button for it. "_Arriving level two. Doors are opening_," the elevator announced as if it were the best thing ever for the doors to open.

John snorted. "Wow, that's already annoying."

She chuckled. "Maybe we should change the voice? Nobody wants to say anything since we know it's the right thing to have, but, yeah, it makes me want to slap it for being so damn happy about being an elevator."

She led him forward toward the end apartment and exclaimed in surprised greeting, "Captain Rogers!"

"Agent Peltson," Steve greeted her, a little stiffly. "I heard the helicopter." He came closer. "John. Good to see you again - I mean -"

"You don't have to avoid the word, it's fine." John held out his hand for Steve to grasp, and they shook. Steve put his free hand on John's shoulder in a commiserating grip.

"Still, I wish you weren't here because of this. When Grace - Agent Peltson - told me, I couldn't believe it. What terrible luck."

"No kidding. I guess we'll both have to be babysat now," John told him with a bit of a shrug.

"I'm glad you're alive. And that you came here, and not someplace else," Steve told him, warmly, and the sheer sincerity of his tone seemed to ease something in John's chest at the genuine welcome. "Here, let me show you the new place. Your floorplan's the same as mine, but your back window lets out onto the fire escape."

"You've been inside?" John asked.

"I'm sorry, I was nosy," Steve admitted, sounding sheepish. "There was all this banging around on my ceiling. Grace didn't want to tell me what it was for-kept telling me it was _classified_, as if a house remodel is classified -"

"And then he looked at me sadly and I folded," Agent Peltson said with a sigh, then chuckled.

The two of them brought John into the small apartment. "There are some empty shelves here along the right hand wall, for your things," Steve said. "When your trunk or boxes come later."

Since he was wearing everything he owned, John answered, "There aren't any. I travel light."

There was a pause, and he could feel the other two exchange a look behind his back, before Peltson said with elevator-like cheeriness, "Well, I'm sure you'll be gathering stuff in no time, like the rest of us. There's a laptop on the dining room table, already equipped with SHIELD voice commands. From there you can control most things in the apartment -"

She continued to babble on, explaining all the enhancements to his new place. John listened to her, but after Steve said to him in a quick aside, "I'll be right back," it was with only half his attention, wondering why Steve had left.

Peltson's cell phone buzzed and while she was talking in the other room, Steve returned through the open front door. He came up to John, "I have something for you." And he poke John in the stomach with them. "They're yours."

John grasped the eskrima sticks, but then let go instead of pulling them from Steve. "I - I think you should keep them. They're no good to me, now."

"The Lemas gave them to you." Steve pushed them at him. "Take them."

But John refused. "No. They thought I'd protect them, and now I can't." He let them fall to the wooden floor, and they clattered sharply against each other.

The sound of them striking each other was sharp and he got such a vivid image of Steve and the furniture behind him, he took a step back and reflexively raised his hand against it.

"John? Are you all right?" Steve asked in concern.

"I - the sticks," he said, kneeling down to grope on the floor for them, frustrated when they weren't where he thought they were. "Where are they?"

"Here, I've got them," Steve said, and John felt the sticks against his leg.

John took them and then holding one in each hand, struck them together. The resulting clacking sound was gave him a perfect image of Steve's face, brow furrowed in concern, right in front of him and his hand outstretched toward John.

John snapped out the stick to touch Steve's hand before the image faded.

Steve's voice was confused. "How? How did you do that?"

John hit the sticks together again, lightly this time, for a wavering silvery image of the sticks themselves and his own hands. The image was fascinating in a way, as if he was seeing his own skin glow. Then when it had faded to black again, he gave a smile. "It turns out I have a superpower, after all."

That led to Peltson revealing that the refrigerator was stocked with beer as well as other more necessary items. "I've already been briefed on your talent, and this sounds like something you two can have guy talk over anyway. So here's beer, and there's pizza on the way."

She left, and when the explanations, beer, and pizza were done, Rogers murmured, "So you think it was the experiments from when you were a kid?"

"Some of the doctors think it's something I could always do, but I never had the need before. But I think it was the experiments. Not that it matters, I guess. But it makes all this a little easier." He waved a hand all around, at the apartment, but really meaning his blindness.

Coulson's parting gift had been the sunglasses John was wearing. John's parting gift in return had been an envelope full of exactly the same amount of money Coulson had given him two weeks and a million years ago. Natasha had counted it for him before she'd left, and John had sealed the envelope and slid it into Coulson's jacket pocket as he'd stumbled into Coulson on the way to the helicopter. Feigning clumsiness wasn't very hard when he could see only occasionally.

"That's… I never heard of anything like it. Humans seeing like bats. That's extraordinary."

"Like you," John observed dryly. "And you must have seen the news about the Hulk. The world's getting more dangerous every day." He leaned back and with his free hand, held both his eskrima sticks and tapped them against his knee. "And I can't do anything about it. Not for SHIELD, or the Lemas."

"I'm not taking the sticks," Steve refused flatly. "Forget it. You need something in this place that's yours. And maybe you can use them."

"For what?" John asked, wondering what he was talking about, then realized, striking them together. "Oh. You mean this? It works with any sharp sound. I might be able to grow it to a vision I can keep all the time."

"That's good, but that's not what I was thinking…" Steve trailed off thoughtfully.

"What?"

Steve hesitated, not willing to spit it out yet. "You should settle in first," Steve decided. "And I need to talk to Grace and get some supplies. But I have a crazy idea about how to help."

John was going to demand Steve spill but then decided not to. He'd have plenty of time to figure it out.

After Steve went back downstairs, John locked up and made his way to the bedroom. The house seemed so quiet after getting used to the noises on the carrier, but the sounds of the city were there, too, and welcoming in their own regularity.

His cell phone buzzed with an unknown number call and he fumbled for it on the bedside table. "Hello."

"_Bonjour from Paris_," Natasha's voice greeted him.

He stretched out on the bed. "Bonjour from New York."

Her voice was like a light in the dark and he thought he would have been content to listen to her read the newspaper. That she was asking about what he'd done and what the apartment was like, and telling him how she was so bored on this layover and passport control hadn't even looked at her, was all a bonus. He didn't deserve her - or maybe he did. Maybe they deserved each other.

Either way he was willing to stay on this train as long as she wanted him there.

* * *

tbc...


	12. Chapter 12

Steve Rogers was the most nicely stubborn person John had ever met, he decided. John had a reputation for stubbornness, but he found himself worn down by Steve's insistence and disposition that made opposing him feel _mean_. It was an admirable trait to be sure, except when it was set against John's conviction this idea was crazy.

"You can't be serious."

"I am. Come on; they have a basement gym in this place. We might as well use it. You can train your X-ray eyes, and spar against me."

"It's not X-rays."

Steve didn't even deign to retort that one. "You use your sticks, and let's see how it goes."

John didn't get up from his couch. "You're nuts. This won't work."

"It will."

John groaned. "This is ridiculous. I don't even know what you're trying to prove."

Steve's hand gripped his upper arm. "That you can still contribute," he said, softening his voice. "Isn't that what you want? And you think you can't? Maybe everybody else has even told you that you can't, that you're helpless and weak and dependent and you can't hack it anymore. But you can, if you got a second chance and some training. If there's anybody who gets that, John, it's me."

Steve saying that should have been ridiculous, since today's Steve was hardly helpless or dependent. But unfortunately John knew that Steve did understand that feeling, and it was difficult to have it named and shoved back in his face. Yes, he was all those things, but especially that he couldn't hack it anymore. John clenched his jaw. "Even if you're right, and this works, it won't be what it was."

"No," Steve agreed. "It won't. That's true. But that doesn't make it bad. And maybe it'll still be better than it is now."

John gave in to the inevitable. Steve was clearly going to hound him until he did, anyway. "All right, I'll try. Still won't work."

"Twenty bucks says it will."

John was about to quip about how he should put his money where his mouth was if he really believed that, then thought with amusement that twenty bucks was probably quite a lot of money to Steve who was still outraged that five cents couldn't buy anything.

He took the sticks and held onto Steve's arm to reach the gym room, which echoed to his footsteps cavernously as they entered. Steve brought him across the concrete floor and then stopped. "Okay, this is the middle. Do your thing."

John clicked his sticks together to see the outlines of the gym room - it was as open and high as it had sounded, with a few supports off to the side that he'd have to watch, and the narrow, ground-level windows high above.

"You see it?" Steve asked.

"Got it."

"Good, now turn around and do it again so you can see me."

So John did and to his surprise saw that Steve was standing there with a pair of sticks of his own, upraised. Then Steve tapped his together, and the vision renewed itself. "Hold it as long as you can and fight."

He lunged at John, who parried reflexively. The clash flared the image, which persisted as Steve struck again. He swung slowly enough that no one was in danger- even if John had missed, Steve wasn't actually going to strike him. But John crossed both sticks to parry the stroke.

The impact parry sent a shock up his arm. Deliberately holding back or not, Steve was damn strong. John launched an attack, not needing any sight for that, when his body knew the moves. He only needed to see the response, and the clash of their weapons was enough to show him that.

"You have it! See, I told you this would work," Steve told him, proud and enthusiastic, but not smug. John attacked again, forcing Steve to give ground with an urgent step and parry, quick and uncontrolled. "Wow, you're good at this."

John remembered Natasha's warning about letting Steve into close-quarters combat and inwardly grinned. She might have a point in a real fight, but in a sparring match, this was fun.

The sounds of their weapons kept the image gleaming like silver behind his eyes, clarifying into not just Steve and his motions but details on the far walls, of beams and doorknobs. It was strangely beautiful to see. There was no color, but light and shadow moving in a kind of dance.

Steve disengaged and stepped away, and all too soon the image faded. "That's probably enough. Grace told me you have to be careful not to induce a headache. Nobody wants you to collapse in a stroke."

John lowered his sticks and concentrated. Using Steve's voice, which was giving him a watery ghostlike blob, he threw his stick underhand, whipping it from his hand like throwing a knife.

"Hey!" Steve's exclamation was also enough to see the result, as he ducked out of the way and used one of his rattan sticks to knock John's aside. Then he straightened, and his voice was a little wary, but also amused, "Are you done? Or are you going to throw the other one at me?"

"All done. I wanted to see if I could still throw."

"You can. But that gives me ideas for next time."

They gathered their things, including John's fallen stick, and went back upstairs. At Steve's door, John removed his wallet and the stack of twenties he'd gotten from Grace as his personal funds, holding one out wordlessly.

"Told you so," Steve said, as he took the money. And this time there was definitely smugness in his voice.

"You're right." John twirled the sticks at his sides, relishing the notion that he could still fight. Maybe he couldn't be an agent like Natasha and Clint any more, infiltrating the bad guys, and maybe HALO jumping and sniper shooting were no longer in his skillset, but he still could fight and he could defend himself.

And if he got really good at his vision, he might be able to shoot again. But maybe the handles of these sticks were all he needed in his hands.

"So we train you," Steve declared. "You teach me modern life, and I teach you how to fight all over again. Deal?"

They shook hands. "Deal."

* * *

Something was happening. John knew it from the scurrying around in the hall outside his door, and when the helicopter landed on the roof, that seemed like confirmation. At first he tensed, hoping it would involve him, but then realized of course it wouldn't. Whatever SHIELD was doing, it was nothing to do with him.

He settled back on his couch and started the audiobook on the Roman legions, but a knock soon interrupted to his surprise. His door was open and he called, "Come in." He thought it was probably Peltson or one of his other minders, coming to tell him she was being reassigned to whatever was going on.

The door clicked and someone entered with a heavy deliberate tread. John didn't even have to 'look' to know who it was. The helicopter suddenly made more sense. "Director Fury. Welcome."

"Agent Reese." There was a pause as Fury probably looked around the nearly empty apartment. And since Fury wasn't much for chit-chat, he said, "I have a situation. You've been training with Captain Rogers to develop your ability. Are you at combat readiness?"

John didn't have to consider that too long. He shook his head once. "No. And to be clear, while my ability gives me some of my vision back, it's still not what it was."

"I know that," Fury said, but sounded annoyed by it, as if John's disruption of his plans was a deliberate attack on him. "But I need all my fighters. Damn it." Then he said with a near growl of frustration. "All right. Be aware that Agent Barton's been compromised. Do not under any circumstances engage him until you get the all-clear from SHIELD," he warned.

John sat up, alarmed. "What? He's been- how? What happened?"

"You don't need to know that. Captain Rogers will be leaving with me to assist. Keep your head down, Agent Reese, until this is over."

John clenched his jaw as Fury let himself out. Don't need to know, bullshit. He needed to know. Fury couldn't just drop that on him and walk out. "Compromised" how? What the hell did that mean in this case? Barton had been having a quiet babysitting job and now this?

Steve knocked on the door a few minutes later, and John met him at the door. "Fury came to you, too?" Steve asked.

"Yeah. Though he didn't tell me anything."

"He didn't tell me much either. Enough, though. Something of Red Skull's still lingering and I gotta go clean it up."

He and Steve had talked about Red Skull, and there was nothing of that maniac's that could be lingering that was good news. But it certainly could explain all the SHIELD activity and the news about Barton. "Watch your back," John told him.

"I'll remember what you said," Steve promised him. "See you on the flipside."

When the door closed and Steve was gone, John wandered back to his living room and the couch. He turned on the television to find the news, but there was nothing. Whatever was going on, SHIELD was keeping it quiet for now.

It made him surly and annoyed that he was stuck in the apartment with no way to help. He knew something was wrong, but he was kept in the dark about what, even if he couldn't help.

His phone played the tone he'd associated with Natasha and he plucked it out of his pocket. "Nat?"

"_John. I'm on a plane to India_."

"India?" he tried to come up with a reason for India, but came up empty.

"_To get Banner's help." _

"His _help_?" If Banner was supposed to be part of the solution, not the problem, there was something seriously fucked up going on. "Is this part of the mysterious thing that pulled Steve away and something happened to Barton? Fury wouldn't tell me shit."

"_Not over an open line, but yes. I have to get him back_."

"Whatever it takes. I understand."

Her voice warmed. "_I know you do_."

He wondered what to say - he didn't want to sound condescending or that he didn't think she was competent, and he didn't want to sound falsely hopeful when he didn't understand what the hell was going on except it was bad. So he told her, "When the bad guys are down, I'll be here. I got a nice wine for a housewarming gift. Or at least that's what somebody told me - it could be 2 Buck Chuck for all I can read of it."

"_I want to see your place_."

"There's nothing in it," he warned.

"_If there's you and a bed, that's all I want_," she answered with soft honesty. "_Once this is over_."

"Kick a bad guy in the face for me, and I'll see you soon, I hope. Clint'll come back, Nat."

"_He better. Gotta go_."

They hung up and he stretched out on the couch, idly listening to the news on low volume, glad that even if he wasn't in the fight, at least he could be something for Natasha to look forward to.

* * *

tbc...


	13. Chapter 13

I'm not doing chapter titles, but if I were, this would be - The Battle of New York. Enjoy. :)

* * *

.

Waiting should not have been strange - half of his career had been spent waiting for something to happen. But this was different. This was waiting without the promise of action at the end; waiting while others were in danger with no surety of their return. He spent some of his anxiety down in the gym with the punching bag, practicing bare handed and with his sticks. He built a back harness for the sticks and practiced pulling them out and holstering them until the motions were second-nature. He pestered Agent Peltson for news, until she gave in and told him what she knew about the stolen tesseract and Loki of Asgard.

Nothing helped though. He knew he was going to have to learn how to deal with being left behind.

He was about to head back down to the gym, when Peltson rushed into his apartment. "John, John, there's something happening above the city. I'm getting reports of wild energy readings and it's swirling like a hurricane. SHIELD is calling for people to get indoors."

"Luckily I'm already inside," he said dryly. He wanted to go look at whatever it was, but there was no point. His ability wouldn't reach that far, if it was above the skyline.

She hesitated and then said, "It's a portal to another dimension. We're getting confused reports from the Carrier, there was an attack and Loki escaped. Agent Coulson might be dead. They're saying this is an invasion."

"Aliens coming out of the sky?" That was not a question he ever would have expected to ask, and yet today it seemed expected.

"Apparently."

He stood up. "Then what are we waiting for, Agent Peltson? Let's go to where the action is."

"I - I don't think - "

"If aliens are invading the city, I want to be there."

"But - But civilians are supposed to stay indoors-"

"I'm still an agent, too."

"But you're -"

"Blind? If I can hit them, I will." He left his jacket and grabbed his sticks and their holster. "Bring your gun."

"I don't know if this is a good idea," she muttered as she followed, but he noticed she didn't call it in or try to stop him.

Outside, she hailed a cab and put a hand on his head as he bent, somewhat like a cop putting a perp in the car, to make sure he didn't hit his head as he got in.

The driver took them downtown, grumbling the whole time about the weirdness in the sky. When they could go no further with the street blocked by police cars, John reached for the door and let himself out, hitting the side of the car with a stick to find the curb much to the cabbie's annoyance.

Behind him he heard Peltson and the cabbie haggling on the price, until she slammed the door. "What now?"

"Look up, tell me what you see."

For a moment there was silence then she said, "Holy crap. There are things flying out of that swirling hurricane, and a bright beam of light between Stark Tower and the sky."

"Well, we can't do anything about that, but we can sure as hell take care of aliens coming our way. Let's find some high ground, and you shoot the hell out of them. I'll keep them off your back."

"Sounds fair," she said, and finally sounded like she was smiling. She took his hand around her arm as a guide, and they hurried into the nearest office building. She held out her badge at the security guard. "Keep everyone inside away from the windows. Roof access?"

Riding the elevator to the top floor, he waited as she found the stairs and soon enough they were heading out to the roof. The wind was strong and he could hear a strange high-pitched whine in addition to the regular sounds of traffic. It was already making his head ache behind his eyes, but the pitch appeared to be excellent for activating his sense.

As he turned he could see the outlines of the edge of the building, the air conditioning unit, the vaguer imprecise outlines behind it of another building, and Peltson ready with her sidearm. "You ready?" she asked.

"I'm good. I have visibility out to about fifteen meters."

"They're flying!" she yelled and fired.

Gun fire turned out to be excellent for echolocation as well, and he had a great view of the alien as it tumbled off its flying sled right onto the roof behind Peltson. It had some sort of weapon in its hands but John hit the creature first, smacking the weapon out of its grip. It was armored, but his sticks were strong and he didn't hold back at all, hitting it as hard as he hit the thing on its head and it collapsed like it was dead. Then an energy blast came out of nowhere to slam into it, and he whirled around, sticks ready.

"It's me!" Peltson said, "I grabbed its gun. You want it?"

"Hell yes." He slid the sticks into their holster and took the alien weapon she offered.

"I thought you might."

They rejoined the fight and as the things tried to attack them. Luckily they only seemed to fly in pairs, but they were no match for their teamwork, as they picked off the aliens as much as they could. It was the edge of the battle - John could hear more significant fighting closer to the Tower - but he and Peltson took care of any strays that passed their way.

Her gun clicked on empty. "I'm out!" she yelled.

"Go inside."

"What? No, you should go inside, and I should take that - "

"It's losing charge, I'll join you soon," he told her and turned away, to take out another of the invaders. The ache behind his eyes was growing, but as long as he could still use his own ability and whatever power remained in the alien gun he was going to; he could hear screaming of people in trouble, and he could at least take care of a few of the enemy.

He couldn't shoot anything speeding past, they were too quick for him to glimpse until they were gone, but if any of them peeled off to attack him, he picked them off.

He disabled one sled, but the alien jumped off and onto the roof. John fired again but the alien weapon responded with a sputter. Knowing the alien was going to fire at him, he dove toward it, rolling along the roof s the blast tore up where he'd been. He came up to one knee, pulling the sticks.

He got the sticks between its legs and managed to knock it off balance, kicking it in the knee, and as it fell, he kicked it again in the head. It was growling or cursing his ancestry or something, but as he hit it, he could see it, and he brought both sticks down again and again, until it stopped moving.

Then a tremendously loud noise rattled the ground and the building, and he lifted his head. "What the -" But he couldn't see it - he could only hear it, but it was big and it was leaving massive destruction behind it. He threw himself flat on the roof.

The roar of some monstrous flying creature passed close, making the building shake violently, and debris of cement rained onto him. It had hit the building. He lost his grip on his sticks and tried to find them, but beneath him the floor tilted, breaking apart. He scrambled sideways, trying to find a solid place to rise, but he lost track of where he was, and his vision was muddled, with too much in motion.

He found the edge of the roof, and grabbed the low wall. Too late he realized he was on the corner and it was going to fall.

He looked, _reaching _desperately to see something anything to help. There, the opposite building looked more intact. He had to jump. He couldn't make its roof because he was too low, but the fire escape was possible.

No choice.

He launched himself off the roof, yelling to keep himself on target, and realized it was farther than he'd thought. Shit, he wasn't going to make it.

The fall was nightmarish. He crashed into the metal of the fire escape, all sharp points and hard edges that he grabbed at frantically for purchase, hands and feet trying to stop his fall, fingers trying to hold on and slipping. But the tips of his fingers gripped a tiny, narrow edge and he forced it to be enough.

His descent stopped and his feet swung into nothing. He gritted his teeth, holding on, despite the pain. Refusing to fall. _If you fucking die here, think what a waste it's all been. Die a killer, die a monster. Live so you can make it right. Live so you can touch her again. Just don't fucking let go, John Matthew Murdock._

His fingers throbbed, but held, and he carefully tried to move them, one by one, and get a better grip. Once he had a better grip he could pull himself up.

The metal shuddered, nearly throwing him off, and there was some other horrible noise of one of those alien blasters. The fuckers were shooting at him.

And he was hanging there like a target. Shit. He tried to lift his feet, make himself smaller, trying to find the ladder that had to be somewhere nearby.

The iron shuddered again, and with a horrific screech of metal on metal, and he realized in horror the fire escape was coming loose. The ledge under his fingers shifted and he lost his grip. He yelled, and his hands flung out, frantically trying to grab something - anything - on his way down.

But there was nothing.

Then there was another roar, a different one.

He slammed into something, not the ground, not an alien attack sled, maybe a different alien? It was big and it was warm. He tried to get free, but it had a huge limb around him and he couldn't move.

Belatedly, John recognized that roar from what felt like forever ago from that recording Natasha had played.

The Hulk.

The Hulk landed in the street with a horrible jarring thump, breaking asphalt beneath him, and dropped John to the ground. Then with another roar he was gone.

Stunned, John tried to get his breath back. His head was throbbing urgently, and he really didn't want to move, but he knew he had to find shelter. He inhaled another breath and tried to stand up. His leg flared with sudden sharp pain in his thigh and sending him back down to one knee. His finger found the wound, a deep bleeding gash that made him flinch.

He jumped at the sound as some piece of hard debris crashed to the street next to him. He needed to move. It would be incredibly stupid to have the Hulk save him from falling to his death only to get killed by a brick to the head. Although it was entirely possible a brick to the head would hurt less than the stabbing pain already there.

"Sir, sir," a young voice exclaimed and John had a brief flash of a National Guardsman rushing up to him, grabbing him at the shoulder to help him up. "Sir, you need to get off the street…"

Light-headed, John corrected, "Not "sir", "Sergeant." Peltson, up there - I can help - " He couldn't gather his thoughts, as they spun apart. Was this the base in Tikrit? "Was it a car bomb? God, my head hurts."

"Sir? - Sarge, I mean, are you=? Oh my God, there's a lot of blood - you need a medic-"

But John didn't hear the rest. There was not much transition, just the feeling that he was falling again, and then, nothing.

* * *

to be concluded next time!

Thanks to those of you who've let me know you're enjoying it! 3


	14. Chapter 14

Final chapter - after the Battle of New York.

* * *

.

The buzzer woke John, and he groped for the alarm clock before waking enough to realize it was someone at the door.

Then he realized he was in his bed in his apartment. His head hurt and he had a bandage wrapped around his thigh and stitches on his shoulder, with no memory of the treatment. Or how he'd gotten home, at all, or wound up dressed only in boxers.

The buzzer went off again, impatient. He got out of bed, feeling his way to the hall and then limped to the door, as someone picked the lock and the door opened. He reflexively went to a ready stance, and clapped his hands together sharply.

He saw Natasha standing framed in his doorway, her head cocked a little in amusement. "Applause? Opening your door wasn't **that** challenging."

"Natasha. It's good to -"

But the humor dropped out of her voice as she interrupted, "You're hurt."

John shrugged. "Just a couple of scrapes."

In the sound of the door slamming shut behind her, he saw her drop her jacket on the floor and propel herself forward, and she slid her hands around his waist. "John. No one told me you were hurt; I would've come sooner."

He closed his arms around her and she rested her head against his shoulder. It felt so good, so warm, to have her against him. "Hey, I'm okay," he murmured into her hair. "I'm glad you're here."

"I'm glad it's over."

"We won." Then he added, more lightly, "We won, right? I think I fell off the building and I was saved by the Hulk, unless I hallucinated that part."

She snorted. "It happened. I heard you **jumped**."

"The roof was collapsing; I didn't have a lot of choice." Then he blinked, realizing there was really no way she should know that. Peltson had taken cover by then. "Who the hell told you? The Hulk talks?"

"Clint. He's … back, if not exactly okay. He saw you up on the roof -" she pulled back and framed his face with her hands, "fighting the aliens, too, you brave idiot. What were you thinking?" she demanded, shaking him a little.

"I couldn't sit here and do nothing," he protested. "And I took out some."

Her fingers drifted down his cheeks and neck and she leaned into him again, murmuring with a smile in her words, "You liked it."

"A little," he admitted with his own ghost of a smile.

"I can't believe you did that, but if you're going to, you need a work suit for more protection," she advised, fingers ghosting over the bandage on his shoulder and then his bare chest. "You could've been killed."

"So could you," he retorted. She drew breath as if to inform him that it was totally different because she was sighted and he was not, but she didn't say it, subsiding with a faint sigh of understanding. "Are you hurt?" he asked.

"No. Tired." He took that as an invitation to pull her close. She put her head down again, her hands making idle passes up and down his back.

"It's over," she murmured. "But it made me think about something. Almost losing you, and Clint, and then ... Phil and... so much. Do you remember being a child before the facility?" she asked. "Your family?"

Puzzled about why she would ask that, he took a moment but answered truthfully, "A little. I tried to hold onto my memories, because Essex tried to take them away, but all I have left are feelings more than anything. My mother's voice…" His grip on Natasha tightened as he remembered how once there had been safety and comfort, and love, before it had all been ripped away…. He remembered strong hands holding him, soft lips kissing him goodnight… For so many years he'd dreamed they would come save him.

"Me, too," she agreed. "I put away those memories when they made me weak, but now… I remember. It was the last time I had so much to lose." He could barely hear her whisper, but he understood then why she'd asked about his memories of the past, because he felt it, too. Natasha had the strength to fight aliens and corral the Hulk, but she was fragile, too, re-experiencing those feelings she hadn't had since she was a child.

"We have more to lose, but more to fight for, too. Not governments, not bureaucrats who hold our leash- people. For friends, for the innocent…" he paused and stroked her hair. "For the people we want safe."

The words hung between them unspoken: _the people we love._ He couldn't quite say them, and she didn't either, but they were there.

"I don't know how to do this," she whispered. "Not for real."

"I don't think there's a map for people like us." Because it wasn't as if he had any great experience at this either. "But giving up is too easy."

"True. It feels like letting the bad guys win." She raised her head, her hands sliding down his flanks in an unsubtle indicator of her intent, as her mouth joined his deeply.

Stepping back carefully, he headed for the bedroom, needing a correction only once when his back hit the frame of the door. Natasha yanked him the right way, and when she pushed him, he trusted her that all was where it should be and let himself fall.

* * *

"Hm, this is nice," Natasha murmured, with a leg and arm over him, her head pillowed on his arm. The room was getting a little chill, without even a sheet on them, but for the moment he liked the feel of her warmth against him. "I love the bed. It's so big and cozy."

His free hand found her fingers. "It's better than the infirmary cot."

"It's better when it's not a job," she said and stilled, as if to check his response.

But she wasn't the only one who'd seduced her way to information, and he was in no position to judge her, even if he hadn't. "Much better," he agreed. "Though admittedly I'd have been more prepared, if this was a job."

She chuckled and teased, rising over him, purring, "Mm, you like to make preparations? Sounds kinky."

But before they could discuss exactly what preparations he had meant, the front door buzzed.

"If we wait long enough, they'll go away," he said, curling an arm around her when she made a move to get up.

"I, uh, might have told Clint we'd be here," she said. "And he needs his friends right now."

He let her go with a sigh, not as reluctant as it sounded. "All right. Could you find my shorts? You threw them somewhere."

His shorts smacked him in the chest, and he heard her dress quickly and rush to the door, as the person buzzed again.

"Clint, come in," he heard her greet him, as John felt for the tag in his shirt to make sure the t-shirt was the right way around. Then at least moderately dressed he made his way into the hall and slapped one of the shelves, to get an image of Barton standing there, carrying a small duffel.

"Yeah, come in." John beckoned him. "Living room's this way. Coffee?"

"Sure, thanks." His voice seemed subdued as he followed John to the other room.

"I'll start it," Natasha offered, heading into the small kitchen.

"You doing okay?" John asked, after he'd heard Clint sit down on the arm chair.

"Yeah, I guess," Clint answered. "Just got to figure it out."

"I know that feeling," John agreed and changed the subject. "Natasha tells me you saw me during the battle."

"Man, you are out of your god-damned mind!" Clint exclaimed, and John was glad to hear a bit more passion in his voice. "I've seen crazy stuff - _Romanoff_ - " that was directed at her and she chuckled, then Clint added, incredulous, "but fighting aliens blind on a roof takes the cake."

"It does sound kind of reckless when you put it that way," John allowed, and both Clint and Natasha snorted simultaneously.

"No more crazy ass, daredevil stunts when we'll miss you if you die stupidly," Barton reproved and then the amusement faded. "We already lost enough in this war."

John nodded, saddened by the reminder of Natasha's news about Coulson. "Make sure you tell me about Coulson's memorial. I want to come."

Natasha settled close to him on the couch. "Of course. Clint, what did you bring?"

"Ah, speaking of Phil, he had something made for you, John. Apparently he knew you weren't going to be content puttering around this apartment, even before the evil aliens showed up." Barton unzipped the case. "It's a full suit, more like Cap's than mine. Check it out: body armor. All dark red, leather look."

John took it and ran his hands across the suit. It felt strong but surprisingly flexible, and his fingers found the headpiece. "It has a hood?"

"For protecting your identity," Natasha said softly. "If you're going to kick crime lord ass in the city, you need a secret identity."

"What? I'm not going to go around -" John protested, but he couldn't finish the sentence, before Natasha's hand laid over his.

"You're a protector and a fighter, and you'll never be content in analysis, unless you have something else to do. Phil knew that, and now that you've proven you can do it, you have the means."

"Fury can't possibly approve of creating the Mid-town Vigilante. The Man in the Red Leather Suit. Whatever."

Barton chuckled wryly. "I'm sure he thinks of it as practice, so he can call you up for the Avengers next time there's something you can help with."

John frowned, uncertain whether he liked being at Fury's call. Going after Caparelli to protect the Lemas had been more satisfying than anything he'd done in years, including fighting space aliens. "I don't want to be a liability in the field, and I'd rather do what I can do here, I think. But this suit…" His fingers touched the supple, leather-like feel of it. "I don't know. It's going to look ridiculous."

Natasha leaned into his shoulder and whispered, but loudly enough for Barton to hear, "It's going to look hot. Especially taking it off…"

"God, no, stop it. I don't want to know!" Barton exclaimed in mock horror.

Natasha snickered at him, but seemed also pleased that they'd gotten him into a lighter mood.

The buzzer rang again and Natasha jumped up. "I'll get it."

John heard Rogers' voice as they greeted each other, and then Rogers' heavier tread on the wood. "I heard the noise, and thought I'd drop by."

"Of course, Steve, join us." John waved to the other chair.

But before Steve sat down, John felt a light weight pressing on his arm. "Thought you might want these back," Steve said. John wrapped his hand around it, discovering the pair of eskrima sticks. Running fingers lightly down the length, he proved to himself they were the same.

"How? Where did these come from?"

"Agent Peltson recovered them from the roof and gave them to me to hold for you," Steve pressed John's shoulder. "You're not getting out of practicing with me that easily."

Natasha resumed her place on the couch and tucked up her feet. "But not today. I think we all deserve a break after what happened."

"What did happen? I missed most of it," John asked. Natasha had told him a little, but he hadn't wanted to press when she'd been reticent. But Steve was able to carry the story, with only a little help from the other two. Afterm John managed to draw out Clint into some roughly-spoken words about the mental compulsion, and it felt like a victory when Clint seemed to find a bit of peace after they'd listened.

Meanwhile Natasha curled up at John's side, leaning into him in a subtle connection, grounding him with her presence. The sound of their voices was an equally subtle glowing mist wrapping around their faces and bodies, giving him the ghostly impression of his friends.

Phil had made it possible, bringing these lost souls together. He'd given John a second chance, though it was more than he deserved.

John's hand slid on the skin of the suit still across his lap and nodded to himself. This rapidly decaying, violent world needed its protectors. He would take this gift and do good.

He couldn't do it as well as he could have before, perhaps, but it was still his duty, and it was still what he wanted to do. And best of all, now he had friends who felt the same.

He wasn't alone.

_The end._

* * *

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. :D


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